The Game
by Carlough
Summary: Undercover, Smokescreen is thrust into the world of piracy and gambling in a city ruled by a mysterious "Game." There he finds a misfit pirate crew that could not only be possible allies, but the family he's always wanted. One mech could be more...
1. Prologue: A Series of Events

**I planned to wait to write this story after I finished the final chapter of another story, but I have the chapter halfway completed already and didn't have access to the computer it was on, so I wrote this in the mean time, and I'll finish the other soon, not that you'll care. **

**Anyways, this is in my own personal AU. If you've read my stories, you'll know that they're all '07 movie 'verse, ignoring RotF, with G1 elements and characters. This is pre-Earth, and contains a cast of OCs with a lot of canon involvement. Multiple canon characters were referenced here, but were not named for the purpose of the story. If you know your G1, you'll be able to guess them in a heartbeat. **

**This is a combo of the ideas in the poll on my profile about what to write next, with the pirate story as the main plot and the story about the lovechild as a secondary plot. Anyways, I can't think of anything else, other than that this is the longest prologue to a story ever written (I mean both the bold text and the actual writing), so with that… Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own Transformers or any of its characters. I do own the OCs used here as well as Vanos and its storyline. The first of the "definitions" used here is courtesy of Merriam-Webster Online, and the second is an adjusted, half-original one from Dictionary with that good old dot and com at the end that FF won't let you write.**

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History often tends to erase its blemishes over time, either because the storytellers are embarrassed and the less favorable section is no longer taught, or because the people just "forget" something about their pasts. There was only one case on Cybertron, however, where an entire city was forgotten.

It wasn't forgotten in the literal sense; no, everyone knew it was still there. Rather, they just chose not to speak of it, or write of it, or even think of it. Everybody pretended that it didn't exist so they could happily continue with their perfect little chaos free lives. Really, they had enough on their servos with Kaon – the last thing they needed to deal with was another problem area. Kaon would have been "forgotten" too, but it had such a large population that it was hard to cover up.

The "forgotten" city was easy to hide. They just pretended it wasn't there, and stopped teaching sparklings about it. Most of all, nobody told stories of pirates anymore. Not in the academies, nor in daycare centers or orphanages, and most definitely not as recharge-time stories. The last thing they needed was a generation of wannabe pirates. Wasn't Vanos enough?

Ah, Vanos, the ex-sister-city of Vos, hence their similar names. Vanos had once been a center of trade; in fact, it was _the _trade center of Cybertron. If you wanted something, you could find it in Vanos. That was still true in the present – things just weren't so legal anymore.

Trade had expanded so much that it was no longer trade. Piracy took over the great, sprawling city of Vanos. It took hold with such intricately tied force that there was no way for the Council or their Enforcers to stop it without arresting or destroying more than half of the city's population. The Council disbanded its Vanoan branch and all Cybertronians who valued law and order vacated the city, leaving large sections of it abandoned. Cybertron had given up on Vanos; Vos disowned it along with the rest of the planet.

But Vanos was far from dead. No, the city still had some life in it yet, some hope for a future. Large parts of it had been abandoned, but the city was not overrun by gangs or high-grade addicts – the pirates would never allow it. Over time, Vanos formed into an extremely close knit community of native Vanoans who all abandoned the city's outer limits and moved to its center for protection from the pirates. Not protection _from_ the pirates, as in to be protected _from_ them, but rather protected _by _them.

All "real" pirates were Vanoan and looked after their small community in the remains of a city that had once held enough power to control an empire. If a pirate, or anyone else for that matter, tried to harm a Vanoan native, they would go "missing" in the same way that Vanos had been "forgotten."

Because of this, Vanos was not a city of crime. Well, _it was_, but it was a very orderly crime city. Theft was forbidden in Vanos. It was part of the pirate code that nobody could steal from a Vanoan, even if the Vanoan was another pirate. There were so few Vanoans left that they all knew each other, so Vanoan pirates got along fine. It was when groups from other areas heard of Vanos and wanted to get in on their "trade" system that they had problems, because those "pirates" did not often follow the Code. They didn't last long, and often went "missing."

Vanoan pirates had an odd way of trading. Sure, if you were a native they might just make a traditional trade with you for credits or another item. But the pirates liked to switch things up a bit. That was how the Game was created.

The Game ruled Vanos. All Vanoans learned it from a young age, and could usually play it better than any non-Vanoan player. Then again, only pirates tended to know of the Game, so it was rarely played in other areas, and if it was, it was behind closed doors in abandoned areas. Nobody wanted to be caught playing one of the most highly illegal games ever created.

It was really nothing more than a card game in the end, albeit a high stakes, extremely illegal card game. One caught playing it could not be directly arrested, but if they weren't smart, then they were easy pickings for the Enforcers.

The Game had a set of complex rules all its own, and allowed many chances for trading within it, as well as chances to win credits, high grade, and many different items that were either rare, stolen, contraband, or a combination of the three. If one had such an item, they would bring with them a chip that was symbolic of the item and hide the actual object, so that if that particular session was raided by Enforcers, they could not be arrested. Inexperienced players often fell victim to the raids, as they did not realize this. Also, if one lied about what they had, and did not have an item to back up their chip, they too "disappeared" without a trace. That tended to happen a lot to outsiders in Vanos.

Sometimes a non-Vanoan Cybertronian who needed a certain item would hire a professional player of the Game, usually a Vanoan, who knew the pirates and could find the item for them. The player, if they were really good and were on friendly terms with the pirates, could acquire a list from them stating what loot they were carrying aboard their ships and what session of the Game the objects would be up for trade at. If one didn't have a professional, it was almost impossible to find what they were looking for.

People played the Game for a multitude of reasons. They might have had objects to trade or that they wished to acquire, or they may have been hoping for credits – one could simply play their way through the Game on credits alone, if they wished – or they may have been looking to have a good time, if they new who the other players were. Depending on the location and the players, the Game could be like a bunch of friends hanging out or a deadly standoff.

The natives of Vanos were few, but friendly, for the most part. They set up their lives in their little city and most started businesses geared towards the pirates passing through. One such mech had a small business like this.

Deep in the spark of Vanos was a small shop belonging to an inventor barely out of his youngling frame. He repaired the pirates' ships and equipment, and often traded with them for different materials and objects that he repaired or made into new things to sell to others, making his business both a repair shop and a small store. His only business came from pirates and other Vanoans with the occasional order from another city, but it suited him just fine. With his meager earnings, he could usually just scrape by supporting himself and his younger brother. Their creators had been killed when the Council had made a futile attempt to wipe out Vanos once and for all. When the attempt failed and the pirates retaliated, they promptly "forgot" the city again and gave up on it once more. For some, though, the damage had already been done.

The inventor looked up as he heard his shop's door open. In stepped probably the most famous, or infamous, pirate to ever grace Vanos. He was only slightly older than the young inventor, but had already made a lasting name for himself. That meant that the inventor was very nervous around him, even after knowing the silver and yellow mech for almost his whole life. Usually the captain would send one of his crew to do business with him if necessary; he rarely came himself.

"Oh, Steelgauge, hi! Um, what can I do for you?"

The pirate captain smiled in a friendly manner at the flustered inventor. "Relax, mech! C'mon, you know me; you don't need to start worshipping the ground I walk on. Well, unless you want to…" He winked jokingly at the inventor, who smiled in relief.

"I know, I know. But you have to admit, we all know you enjoy the attention."

Steelgauge threw back his helm and laughed boisterously. "You've got me pegged there! Anyways, I've got those parts you were looking for."

"Oh, yes! Thank you so much, I've desperately needed these for my latest order. Those Towers mechs and femmes, they act like they're so proper and perfectly legal and they tend to be the ones who send in most of my orders!"

The pirate nodded as he placed the parts on a spare worktable next to the order-in-progress. He studied the odd object while the inventor puttered around, looking for the appropriate amount of credits.

"What's this one supposed to be?" Steelgauge asked, poking the item for emphasis.

"That," the inventor began as he dug through piles of parts searching for the credits. "Is an electro-disrupter. In lay terms, it's a device that can be installed to any mech or femme and can be used to render them completely invisible at will."

Steelgauge nodded; he'd always appreciated how the inventor would explain things without making one ask. It was somewhat embarrassing to never know what the genius-level mech was talking about. "And why would they need this?"

"Some Towers mech is worried about his youngling's safety and wants him to be able to hide from danger at a moment's notice. It's asking for mischief, if you ask me, but it brings the credits in, and that's all that matters. Speaking of credits, I have most of the bill here. If you'll give me a moment, I'll see if I can find something else."

The pirate nodded a third time. If it was any other, he might have been more anxious to get paid and leave, but he honestly didn't mind the inventor. He knew that credits were tight, and would often ask the mech to pay prices that were lower than he would have given any other, and lower than the object's original value. The inventor didn't know this, and Steelgauge didn't intend on telling him. Besides, it didn't affect his profits; he didn't pay for the items himself, after all. He just…acquired them through more alternative means than most.

He reached up and adjusted the goggles resting on top of his helm. Wait…they were acting up a bit lately…

"Hey, how about you see what's up with my goggles, and I'll wave the rest of the fee?" Steelgauge grinned at the look of absolute relief on the inventor's faceplates. He handed the pirate the credits he had and took the proffered goggles to examine them.

Steelgauge's goggles were his trademark. Not many mechs wore goggles unless they needed protection for their optics due to their work. Steelgauge's goggles, however, were not only impervious to almost anything, being that they were made from the same material as the inventor's own blast mask, but they were also wired with many microscopic systems of electronics that allowed the user to see farther with more clarity, no matter the lighting. They could also zoom in on things and contained thermal and motion scanners. The goggles were one of the finest pieces of equipment the inventor had ever seen, and he was proud to say they were one of his own creations. He set to work on them immediately.

A small thud was heard as a tiny blue and yellow sparkling tripped on its way into the room. It stood up, frowned at the floor in offense, and continued on its toddle. Steelgauge watched in amusement as it continued falling over, each time glaring at the floor as it moved on shaky legs towards its destination. It was so focused on its steps that it didn't realize where it was going until it smacked into Steelgauge's own pede and landed on its bottom.

The sparkling stared at the pede in confusion, bemused at where the large obstruction in his path had come from. It reached out an experimental digit and poked the offending object once, twice. Its helm cocked to the side as it chirruped in bewilderment.

The inventor didn't even look up as he told Steelgauge, "Don't mind him, he's fine. Still learning to walk, as you can see. I think some crossed wires are your problem here. I don't know how that happened, unless you dropped them from quite some height." Even as he said this, the inventor didn't need to look at Steelgauge's sheepish grin to know he was correct.

Steelgauge leaned down and picked up the sparkling who was now laying on his pede and, surprisingly enough, licking it. He held the little thing in front of his faceplates to get a better look at it, and was surprised when a miniature glossa shot out of its mouth and swiped his olfactory sensor. The hardened pirate shuttered his optics.

"Does he have a, er…" Steelgauge didn't know how to put it without offending the inventor.

"Licking problem?" the other finished. "Yeah, no idea where that came from. I talked to a medic, and he said it's just a habit I need to break him of, but not to worry about it. I hope you don't mind."

"Uh, not at all." The pirate set the sparkling on the worktable, where it promptly crawled over to the inventor, seeking attention.

"Not now, Blackjack," muttered the inventor gently, welding some broken wires. "I'll play with you later, okay?"

The sparkling frowned petulantly, as sparklings were prone to do, and actually crossed its little arms as it huffed and clicked in annoyance.

"Here you are, Steelgauge," said the inventor as he finished repairing the goggles. "They should be fine now, but if you have any more problems, just stop by and I'll do what I can." He moved to return the goggles to their owner, but a set of quick, tiny servos snatched them from him.

Blackjack held the object in his little servos, cooing in wonder at how large the item was compared to himself and how pretty the green glass looked when it shined in the light. He clicked angrily when his older brother reached to take them back.

"Blackjack, please, not now! I promise I'll play with you, but we really need those back!"

Steelgauge just chuckled at the sparkling's antics as it continuously scooted away from his older brother when he tried to remove the goggles from his hold. "Looks like you've got a natural born thief on your servos there."

Anywhere else, that might have been an insult; on Vanos, it ran more along the lines of a compliment. Still, the inventor frowned. He would really rather his brother stuck to more legal endeavors when he came of age. Illegal ventures were part of what had lost them their creators, and he didn't want to lose his brother the same way.

Blackjack was surprised to suddenly find his fun new plaything missing from his servos. And here he'd just been about to lick it, too. He looked up to see the big new mech holding the item in his giant servos. Putting on his best beseeching look, the sparkling waved its servos in the direction of his plaything in hopes to get it back.

Steelgauge laughed at the sparkling's perplexed and then begging expression. In a fit of good humor, he plopped the goggles on the sparkling's head. It shuttered its optics in puzzlement when it found one to be seeing differently than the other, as the lopsided goggles covered one optic and not the other. When he found what object was on his helm, he cooed in delight and gave the pirate a bright smile.

The inventor, too, grinned. "Would you mind if I took an image capture of this?"

"Not at all."

The inventor gathered the proper equipment and captured the moment in time, just as Blackjack was looking up from under the goggles in a manner that was absolutely adorable. "There," he said in satisfaction as he showed Steelgauge the capture. "Perfect."

That time, that captured moment in history, was the first of many events that led to the conception of one of the best pirate crews Cybertron had ever seen. The second event occurred a few vorns later, a long ways away in a small neighborhood in Iacon, where a single parent mech was trying to find a sparkling-sitter.

"C'mon, c'mon," the mech muttered in annoyance. He growled lowly as he received no response over the line. Great. His usual sitter wasn't answering her comm., and he had to DJ at a club tonight. Who was going to watch his sparkling now? It was too late to find a new sitter, and he couldn't take his creation to the club – not only was it a completely inappropriate atmosphere for his young sparkling, but the sparkling would never recharge there, either.

His best bet was to leave his sparkling at home, in his playpen, and to lock the doors and windows and hope for the best. It was times like this that he regretted not having a bondmate. He had sparked during a one-night stand when he was barely into his adult frame, and had never seen his creation's other creator again. Well, he had, but it had been from afar. When he saw how successful the other was becoming, already an assistant to Senator Ratbat, he couldn't imagine ruining the other's life by dumping a sparkling on him. Besides, he quite liked having little Slang all to himself.

Slang was pretty easygoing, for a sparkling. He was fairly calm and didn't cry often, and he fell into recharge easily with music. Plus, if he was sat down with a story-pad, he would be occupied for joors.

The mech snapped his digits. That was it! His creators had left him boxes of old story-pads, and he remembered some of them to have pictures for younger readers. He had never been through them all, but he was sure they would be fine for Slang. The sparkling probably wasn't reading, anyway, though sometimes he seemed to concentrate so hard it was almost like he could read and wasn't just staring at the pictures. However, he didn't speak yet, and the medics all said that speech came before reading.

A trip into a crammed storage closet proved to be fruitful, as a dusty box of story-pads was excavated. The mech placed them in the playpen along with a stack of blankets that he formed into an almost nest for the sparkling, which he filled with all of his creation's favorite toys. He warmed up a small container of sparkling-grade energon which had a spout on the top to keep the sparkling from spilling it when he would undoubtedly upend it to get every last drop of his meal. This, too, was placed in the pile of blankets.

The mech stood back and surveyed his handiwork in satisfaction. Something was missing… Slang! He immediately began a search for his creation, who had wandered to Primus-knew-where during his preparations. The search did not last long, as he soon found Slang being absolutely mystified by the motion-activated sensor in the house's small wash-racks. With a sigh the mech dried off his squirming, wet sparkling and placed him in the playpen.

Slang stared up at his creator in befuddlement, having no idea what was happening.

"I gotta go sweetspark, Daddy's gotta work. Just stay here and be real good for me, 'kay? You can just go to recharge and I'll be back before you know it." The mech could swear sometimes that his sparkling understood more than anyone believed, because its lower lip started to tremble and his optics filled up with cleaning fluid.

"Shh, shh, it's okay sweetspark, Daddy's only gonna be gone a little bit. You'll be okay. Look, I got you some story-pads to read!" In desperation to keep the crying to a minimum, the mech grabbed a story-pad off the top of the stack in the box and waved it enticingly at the sparkling, which was immediately enraptured and reaching for the item. He handed it to Slang happily, and after placing a kiss to his helm and giving him an energon goodie, the mech was out the door like a shot. If he hurried, he might still make it on time…

The sparkling sucked thoughtfully on his energon goodie as he turned on the story-pad his creator had handed him. The screen lit up and showed an old-fashioned picture of a bunch of mechs fighting with long blades and some carrying big shiny things. He narrowed his optics at the words, trying to understand their meaning.

Slang wasn't the most verbal of mechs, but he did understand a good deal of what was said to him, and was extremely smart for his age. His creator had tried to teach him some words, saying them aloud and pointing to them in a story-pad, and he had been taught his letters, he just didn't like reciting them verbally. It was because of this that the young mechling was able to make out one crucial word that would change his life forever.

He stared at the odd, unknown word for a long time as he sat in his haven of blankets. Slowly, Slang mentally recited the letters to himself.

P-I-R-A-T-E. How did one say that? He tried it aloud.

"Pee…Ih…Rr…A…Teeh…Eeh. Puh-i-ray-tee. Pire-ate. Pirate."

Pirate? That sounded like it might be a word. But what was it? He would just have to decipher the rest of the story-pad and see. After all, he _did_ have all night…

The third event came many vorns later, and occurred in the well-known Towers of Cybertron. An affluent family was throwing a "get together," which was a synonym for a bunch of rich mechs and femmes rubbing elbows, making business deals, and having a good laugh at those poorer than them. Obviously, it was not an event that the more uncouth younglings were welcomed to.

Timbre was a fairly young mech, if a bit big for his age. He had often taken the brunt of his peers' and his own family's jokes due to his large, boxy frame that greatly differed from their lithe, sleek forms. Added that he was also a terrible conversationist and painfully shy, his creators actually told others that he was mute so he wouldn't have to speak to them and possibly embarrass his family. It was more than a small kick in the gut for the youngling.

One good thing about his family was that they had an extensive private library that contained more reading material than one could hope to finish in a lifetime. Most of Timbre's family didn't ever touch the library – they kept it so they could outdo their "friends," but they wouldn't go in there if it was the last place on Cybertron. All the better for the shy youngling who just wanted to get away from it all.

When his creators threw a big party, they required all of their progeny to be present to greet guests with them. Afterwards, they allowed them to do as they wished, and that "they" referred to Timbre's creators. His siblings were to politely socialize and, if of age, check out the prospective bondmates. Timbre was strongly encouraged to make himself scarce unless needed for image purposes, lest some poor mech try to converse with him and be subjected to his horrific conversational skills.

That suited Tam just fine, as it allowed him to hang out in his haven of thousands of floor-to-ceiling shelving units crammed with data and story-pads of every kind. They had every subject, ranging from fiction stories to historical texts to medical journals and scientific research. It was all a young introvert could want.

During this such party, Timbre made his required appearance greeting guests with a small, polite smile before he scampered off to the library. He was on a history kick where every orn he would read about the history of a different Cybertronian city-state. The previous orn he had read a very old data-pad on the history of Vos, and in it had found mention of a sister-city called Vanos.

All Towers mechs were well-educated, even if they were an outcast like Tam. He had learned all of the city-states by spark at a young age, and yet he had never heard of Vanos. This piqued his ever-present curiosity and his need to learn, so he decided that he would spend this party learning all he could about the mysterious Vanos.

His search did not turn up many results. There was nothing in the digital log of the library that mentioned Vanos in the title, so Tam decided to search manually. There was nothing on it in any encyclopedia or any other reference source, or in a data-pad claiming to contain the complete history of every city-state to ever exist on Cybertron – it obviously didn't, if Vanos wasn't there.

Timbre had almost given up hope on ever finding out more about Vanos, and began to wonder if the statement he had read about it had been wrong. In a last ditch effort, he searched the "V" section of the library.

The painstaking search had almost come to an end; he had looked through the entire section, and there was nothing about Vanos. Timbre was about to give up and move on to another city-state when he noticed that a few data-pads were pushed out farther on the shelf than the others. He pushed on the sides of the data-pads so they would conform to the neat, orderly rows of the library, but found that they wouldn't budge; something was set behind them.

Tam removed the data-pads and was shocked to find another pressed against the back of the shelf and sitting perpendicular to the others. He pulled it out and went to set it correctly on the shelf when its name caught his attention.

_Vanos: The Pirate City of Cybertron._

Finally, something on Vanos! But, pirate? What in Primus' name was a pirate? Thanking his deity that he had a library full of ancient texts at his disposal, the youngling spent the rest of his evening pouring over every source he could find which mentioned or described "pirates," and reading the lone pad about Vanos all the way through.

The definition he found was this: _one who commits or practices piracy_. So he looked up piracy: _robbery or illegal violence in space; the illegal or unlawful looting of a ship or home with intent to sell the stolen goods for personal gain._

This interested Timbre to no end. He read about Vanos' connection to piracy and was utterly fascinated by the odd social network that existed there. They were criminals, but were like one big family. He wished he could meet a pirate, be protected like that. Be a part of a larger group that actually welcomed his presence and went on grand, dangerous adventures.

It was Timbre's fantasizing that sealed his fate. He would hold onto the data-pad about Vanos for vorns, rereading it to assist in his fantasies of a place where he wasn't a mute, rich youngling, but a mech with a purpose. At least he could dream…

The last of the biggest, most important events came even more vorns after Timbre's discovery of Vanos.

A pair of blue and green twins was walking through the filthy streets of an extremely poor, rundown residential neighborhood in Tarn. They were virtually identical, in that their voices, paint colors, styles, and accents were the same, except that where one was green with blue markings, the other was reversed, blue with green markings. Their names were Flash and Bolt, respectively, and where one was, the other would undoubtedly be found, to the point where they were just called Flashbolt to save time.

They were orphans, abandoned by their creators, and they had grown up with only the other to watch their back. This led to their heavy reliance on each other, and their extremely close and developed bond. No one could quite tell where one ended and the other began.

Flash tended to be more extroverted than his brother, but the quiet Bolt was known to throw a witty, sarcastic one-liner into a conversation that left a crowd in fits of laughter. That was, when the two were in crowds. Being street filth, they never even had a secure place to stay the night, and spent more time trying to survive and find energon and shelter than they did socializing.

Flashbolt had become quite the pair of thieves, which was a good trait when one lived on the streets and needed to steal energon if they planned on having any. They also had a tendency to break into others' homes and steal their belongings to sell them for the credits that they desperately needed.

On that particular night, the duo was trying to find shelter. They decided to hole up in the same place they had the night before, a small, abandoned home full of trash and turbo-rats. If it had a roof, it was good enough for Flashbolt.

To their great surprise, their shelter was already in use when they entered it. A large, round table had been set up with a dim light over it, and a group of mechs were sitting around the table, playing some sort of card game. When the twins entered, all optics turned to them.

"What are you doing here?" growled a large mech with a scar running down his faceplates. The youngling twins cowered and made to move to the door, but their path was blocked by another, even larger mech with a huge gun that was trained on them. The pair whimpered in fear.

"We didn't mean nothin' sir, we was jus' tryin' to find a place for the night, y'know? We were here last night, and we thought…" Flash yelped loudly as a servo clapped down on his shoulder.

"Well, ya thought wrong, kid. You walked in on some private business here, and we don't take very kindly to that. Who are ya? Do ya work for the Enforcers, hmm? Or what about the Autobots, you with them?"

"N-none of them, sir, none of them."

"I don't believe ya." More than one gun was trained on the twins. Across their bond, Flash whispered, _Love ya, Bro._

_Love ya too, Flashes_.

The pair awaited their untimely demise with shuttered optics, only to hear a voice shout, "Cut that out, you dumbafts! Lemme tell it to you straight what happens to mechs who come from some big city and think they can play pirate with the big kids – they go missing real fast, you hear? You wanna be a pirate and not get yourself offlined, then you need to follow the Code, and the Code very clearly states that the harm of younglings is expressly prohibited. Do those two look like a threat or like they're at all connected to Enforcers? I'll answer for you: no. In fact, they look like a couple of kids who've had some tough times and could really use a break and a couple cubes of energon. So maybe you should stop scaring the life outta them and start welcoming them like the Code states. That is, unless you have an urge to disappear for the rest of eternity."

Bolt carefully onlined his optics to see a silver and yellow mech with some weird green goggles on his helm looming threateningly over the mechs who had aimed weapons at them. He signaled his brother to online his optics across their bond, as the threat appeared to have been neutralized. When their silver and yellow savior noticed the two gawking sets of optics trained on them, he gave the duo a big, friendly smile.

"Hey there," he said, and he winced when the pair flinched. "I'm not gonna hurt you, promise. Like I said, it's in the Code to help younglings." The pair nodded as if they had a clue as to what he was talking about. "You two got family? Or a home?" They shook their helms. "That's too bad. How about you stick here for the night? We have plenty of energon to share, and you two could use a little socializing, am I right?" The pair nodded, small smiles adorning their faceplates. "Well, do you two have designations, or am I just gonna keep talking to myself?"

With heated faceplates, Flash introduced himself and his brother. The mech nodded in satisfaction. "Well," he said. "My name's Steelgauge and I am a pirate captain. You two know what a pirate is?" The twins shook their helms once more. "Figured as much. They try to keep us secret, the Council. Well, first I'll explain to you what we're doing here. This is called the Game…"

The twins learned all one could about pirates, gambling, theft, and the Game that night from one of the lead sources on the subject. By the next morning, they had been fed, cleaned, had a good night's recharge, and Steelgauge had placed small insignias on their forearms that matched those on the chassis' of his crew.

"For protection," he had said. "Nobody with a functioning CPU will bother you with those on your arms. Not even the Enforcers, if they know what's good for them. You have any problems, you call me, aye?" He gave them his private comm. frequency and that of his ship, the _Madness_.

That one bid for friendship and shelter was the final event needed to create one of the oddest, most famous and effective pirate crews the planet had ever seen. Along with two other Vanoan natives, the mechs would form a formidable crew that was both a family and a franchise. And when the Autobots came sniffing around them, one in particular would find more than he bargained…or just what he had always been looking for.

* * *

**Two of the crew were not mentioned because it would make the prologue even freaking longer, and they're Vanoan, so their way into pirating is pretty easy to explain. Everyone else's discovery of pirates had to be explained because, remember, it was no longer talked about, so only through word of mouth or a really old source could it be found. Tam's data-pad was very old, and Slang's story-pad was too, as it had been inherited from his grand-creators' collection. And that is basically it! We jump to the Autobots next chapter, whenever that will be.**

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	2. Vanos, Pirate City of Cybertron

**All chapters shouldn't usually be this long, but I've just been on a roll lately. Forgive me my errors that you'll surely find, my spell-check doesn't pick up on them all and I'm too lazy to check for them, as usual, so they'll all be corrected as I find them over the next few days. Also, there are references here to one of my other fics, _Jazz's _Boys, nothing that should confuse anyone, though. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own Transformers or any of its characters. I do own the OCs used here as well as Vanos and its storyline.**

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_Excerpt from the archives of the _Defiance_, File Name: Autobots_

_We don't much care for the Autobots here on the _Defiance_, me more than anyone here. Like any good pirates we try to stay on the straight and narrow of the war – ironic considering we wouldn't touch the straight and narrow with a pole for anything else. But when it comes to the Autobots, we try to keep far, far away. They don't appreciate pirates, and we don't much appreciate them. We really don't want them to "help" us, because then they think we should join them, and none of us want to join either side of the war, especially me. We don't want to choose. _I _don't want to choose between either of _them_. But it is funny to rile those femmes up. Ah, Star had fun with that. They hate us, we hate them, plain and simple. As for the _Ark_, they haven't shown any interest in Vanos, and that's how we'd like to keep it. Especially for my sake._

_File Archived by: Slang, the best Archivist the slagging Autobots could ever hope to meet._

"You ready for this, Smokey?" inquired Jazz.

"No," the Datsun replied honestly. He wrung his servos together nervously.

Jazz laughed. "Good. You almost never are in Ops."

"But I'm not Ops."

The saboteur shot him a look through that visor of his. "Maybe not most of the time, but for the duration of this mission you're an honorary Ops member. Congratulations."

"Yeah, it's wonderful. I'm so excited to be stranded in a city full of criminals that no Autobot has ever been to before." Smokescreen kicked his pede against the floor. He really wasn't happy about this.

"Smokey, you know I would send an Ops mech, but Vanoans make it their business to know the designations and looks of all Ops mechs from the 'Bots and the 'Cons, and they would recognize me and the others, no doubt."

The Datsun whined, "But why me?"

"Smokes, these are gamblin' mechs. You're a gamblin' mech."

"Reformed," the psychologist corrected.

"But you get gambling, how it affects a mech's processors. You'd get along with them better than anyone else. Plus you would have an easier time understanding the Game."

"Um, the Game?" He wasn't so sure about this.

"Oh yeah, here! I got this off of Swindle for you." Jazz thrust a book at the tactician, one titled _The Game: a How-To Guide_.

"Why were you talking with Swindle?"

Jazz was silent for a moment. "What can I say; the mech's got good merchandise!"

"You mean illegal merchandise."

"Hey, you need to get used to it. Everything's illegal where you're going. See, I'm helping you!"

"Mmhmm. Why do I have to do this again?"

Optimus decided to help Jazz in persuading Smokescreen. The mech was less than excited to be drafted for an Ops undercover job, and he really didn't want to be sent to a place full of gambling, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist surrounded by his vice. Especially when he was being _required_ to gamble as part of the mission. Apparently nobody came to Vanos unless they were a gambler, looking for an item, or trying to become a pirate. Smokescreen was going to be a gambler first, and would use that as an in to become a pirate. Oh, it was going to be an interesting mission, to say the least.

Said Optimus, "The Decepticons have taken an interest in Vanos, which brought the city to our attention. Jazz's intel were able to find out a little about the city and how it runs, as we've told you. The Decepticons seem to be looking to gain control of the city, and the only way to do that would be to make an ally of the pirates. To do so, their best plan of action would be to gain the favor of the 'lead' crew, so to speak.

"Apparently, on Vanos there is often a single pirate crew that represents the group as a whole; the others look up to them, and would follow their lead. This role used to be filled by the crew of a ship called the _Madness_, but Jazz's mechs said that most of the _Madness_ has disbanded – most of its crew has retired, set up businesses on Vanos, or dispersed to other crews after the captain gave them all a, well, _huge_ severance pay and then disappeared with the ship. The youngest crew member of the _Madness_ seems to have taken up the torch, so to speak, and has started his own crew, which has taken the _Madness_' place, as it were. This ship, the _Defiance_, is the one we would like you to join, as they are the group that we are almost sure the Decepticons will go after. We need you to gain their trust first, swing them to the Autobot side."

Smokescreen stared at his leader. "And you expect me to gain their trust by lying to them about who I am? Yeah, that will go over well when they realize that they've been played. I can't keep up the charade forever, remember. Who knows, maybe once they find out who I am they'll go to the Decepticon side just to spite me!"

"I don't think they'll do something _that_ drastic," Optimus muttered with furrowed optic ridges. "But I do understand your concern, and we will address that particular issue when we come to it. For now, worry about learning the Game. You can use that as a way to attract their attention to you, and once you have, you can go about trying to join their crew. Apparently they have a very small one, only seven mechs strong, but they're very picky about who they allow into their midst."

"Fantastic," Smokey murmured. It wasn't that he didn't want to take the mission and help his faction; he was just nervous about taking a Special Operations job and trying to remain undercover without falling back into his gambling addiction. Plus, he wasn't too keen on lying to a bunch of mechs who had never done anything to him or his faction and had been trying to stay neutral throughout the war. They shouldn't be made to choose like that.

"Hey, chin up there Smokey!" Jazz reached out a fist and lightly tapped the bottom of the Datsun's chin, pushing it up. "They're in the business of looking for good players of the Game, so word has it. They play it well enough, especially the captain – he's pretty famous 'round Vanos for his playing – but they could use someone whose job is solely focused on the Game."

"What other jobs could they have?"

Jazz rubbed the back of his helm. "Well, according to my B- I mean my _sources_, they've got the captain and the captain's Second in Command, who seems to be the head of business deals and public relations, as weird as that sounds for some pirates. From what I've heard he's got more of a serious personality than the captain, which is pretty funny – is there some kind of thing about SICs that demands that they're the sternest mechs on the ship? Anyways, they've also got a communications mech who doubles as an archivist, a pilot, a mech who's both muscle and tactics, and a pair of twin thieves, word has it."

"And now they want a gambler?"

"Well, from what I've been able to figure out, there can be more than one mech from the same crew in a session of the Game, and they'd like to put their best players forward. Apparently they aren't all superstars when it comes to gambling, even if they could beat a newbie. The wealth is sort of communal: Everyone's winnings go to the crew's funds, but the crew does get paid salaries, though they don't often actually ask for them because they'd rather just ask for the cash when they need it. Since there are only seven of them, they're pretty close."

That just made Smokescreen feel worse. Great, now he was going to work his way into a group of friends, earn their trust, lie to them, and then betray them. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Jazz checked his chronometer. "Hey, we gotta leave now before someone gets suspicious."

The _Ark_ had been placed on the outskirts of Vanos for about a joor, and if they remained too much longer they would garner too much attention. Not that anyone had noticed them as of yet, but still.

Smokescreen exhaled loudly. "Alright, I'm going, I'm going."

"Atta boy, Smokes!" Jazz cheered. He grabbed the taller mech in a one-armed hug. "Take the book. Read it, live it, love it, and don't you dare get hurt on this, or I won't forgive myself."

That made the nervous mech smile. "I'll be fine, Jazz. I'm not completely helpless." The saboteur just smiled at him in return and slapped him on the back.

"Good luck!"

Smokescreen then nodded at his leader. "I'll be seeing you, Optimus."

Prime smiled softly. "Be sure to call in at least every three orns. If not, we'll probably assume that something is wrong and come track you down. And make sure that nobody sees you when you're calling in. And don't rub at where your Autobot symbols are even though it itches because of the cover layers of paint; that'll be a sure sign of something suspicious. And-"

Jazz patted the leader's shoulder. "I think he's got it, Prime."

Optimus looked down, flustered, while Smokescreen grinned. "I'll be alright, guys, honest."

The pair nodded and saw him off the ship. They even waited until he was well within the abandoned outskirts of the city to depart. Smokescreen couldn't help but laugh to himself. Pair of mother hens, they were.

He wandered through the desolate atmosphere, taking in the dirty remains of neighborhoods and factories, stores and homes, all boarded up with darkened windows. It was almost depressing to see, but he decided to read through his book before he entered the city so he wouldn't be too suspicious. The Datsun chose a random storefront and tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he ducked inside, closing the door behind him. The mech sat on the long-unused checkout counter in the back of the store, turned on the datapad, and began to read.

_Welcome to the world of the Game, one of the most complex, illegal games ever to have been created!_

Well that was a vote of confidence. At least if was happy. Skipping the introduction, Smokescreen moved straight to the rules.

_Necessary: Two to six players and a deck of 52 cards. If there are more than six players, add a deck of cards per each extra six._

_Each person is dealt three cards for their hand, which is to be kept private, and four go on the table in front of them for all to see – this is their home row. The object of the game is to have four cards in consecutive order (i.e. 2, 3, 4, 5) of alternating color (i.e. red 7, black 8, red 9, black 10) in their hand. You can take cards from your home row for your hand, but you must have four cards in your hand at any time, and your home row must always have five cards. If you choose to discard a card from your hand, it is placed facedown at the bottom of the deck. Cards may not be directly discarded from one's home row._

_Before the game begins, every player puts an agreed amount in the pot for the round (See: Betting the Pot). Players may take a card from the home row for their hand, but must take a card from their deck for their home row. If one wants a card from another's home row, then a deal can be made. This is when trade often occurs, and cards are exchanged for credits, items, or other cards._

_Once all trades have been completed, the person to the dealer's right draws a card from the deck, which can be added to their hand or home row or discarded under the deck. Turns continue to the right in a counter-clockwise fashion. Deals and trading may continue through the round. When someone has a winning hand, they win all contents of the pot and set the stakes for the next round's pot. Between rounds is when players can choose to drop out of the Game. There is no real winner overall, only the winner of the round, and sometimes a person's intentions aren't to win the Game, anyway (See: Reasons for Playing the Game). The winner also sets the stakes for the next round._

Well, that didn't seem too hard to understand. In fact, it sounded surprisingly simple. Smokey scrolled down the pad, looking for the mentioned sections.

_Betting the Pot: Anytime a stake or bet is set for the contents of the pot, all players must put in that amount. A player can also put in an item they have brought, whether the item is worth the stake or not; however, a worthless item may result in anger from other players later (See: Dangers of the Game), and a respectful and professional player would not put in an item of a much lesser value. The winner of the round sets the next stake as high or as low as they want, and then puts in an object or the given amount._

_Reasons for Playing the Game: Mechs may play the Game because they are looking for credits, or for company. Most often, they are in search of a certain object. Mechs may only play in a specific round of the Game if that is when the item they are wishing to acquire is part of the pot. This is most common in the cases of professional players who have been hired by an outside party._

Alright, all of that made sense. But what did that one part mean when it said there were "dangers"?

_Dangers of the Game: One must always remember that they are playing an illegal game with, more often than not, pirates. This means that the Game can be quite dangerous. Enforcers are not often a problem on Vanos, as there are none there, but they are an issue if the game is being played outside of Vanos. Enforcers cannot arrest someone for playing the Game, but can arrest one for possession of an illegal, stolen, or contraband item. To avoid this issue, do not bring the actual item to the Game. Instead, bring a representative chip to symbolize the object. At the end of the Game, retrieve the item and pass it off to the winner of that chip. Enforcers cannot arrest one for possession of a symbolic chip, even if they understand its meaning._

_Other dangers of the Game come from playing with pirates. The pirates are normally calm and pleasant, but they do not appreciate when an object of much lesser value than the set stake is placed in the pot. This could result in the injury or "disappearance" of the player. It is highly and strongly recommended that the player does not place an object of a value that is much lower than the stake in the pot to avoid problems with the other players._

Smokescreen thought, _Note to self: Don't jip the pirates._

In all reality, he was pretty sure he understood this thing. He didn't have any items to play with at the moment, but he had a fairly large amount of credits given to him by Jazz to both bet with and live off of, so he had to spend them wisely.

Deciding that his current location was pretty depressing, Smokescreen left the abandoned store and continued down the street to the city's spark. According to the maps he had seen, the city was formed much like a starburst, with a large center of commerce in a circle with all other main streets coming straight off of the center. Other streets intersected these roads to form concentric circles around the center. From above, it was almost artistic.

Smokescreen walked for about half a joor before he saw signs of life. First, it was a few homes with lights on. Then, there were storefronts with Cybertronians visibly inside. The best, though, was the actual center of the city, a large, circular area surrounded by shops on all sides where there weren't roads. Huge ships were settled in the middle of the area – apparently it also doubled as a landing dock for the pirates. Smokescreen was more than a little unnerved by the ships. They weren't as big as the _Ark_, but they were definitely equipped for battle. Sharp edges jutted from the ships, and multiple vicious looking guns were mounted on more than one.

He was so busy looking at the ships that he didn't even realize where he was going until he tripped over something on the ground, falling flat on his face. A soft chirrup came from his right side, and he turned to see a set of glowing red optics peering into his faceplates. Sitting abruptly upright, the mech scrambled back from the metallic scorpion in front of him. It whirred at him questioningly before scuttling forward, up his legs and into his lap. The thing lifted its head and stared inquiringly into Smokescreen's faceplates. The tactician was too busy staring at the large claws and the swaying, dangerous looking barbed tail.

"Uh, good...thing?" The scorpion chirped and pressed its helm under his chin, nuzzling his neck cables. Smokescreen stayed as still as possible, praying to Primus that the creature wouldn't attack him.

It pressed further against his neck, and started to...purr? Yes, it was purring as it continued rubbing against him. Its weight was now fully settled in his lap, and it didn't seem inclined to move anytime soon.

Awkwardly, Smokey patted its helm, a little surprised to hear its purring increase.

"Scorpy? Where'd ya go? C'mere, boy!"

The scorpion chirruped loudly, but did not move from the Autobot's lap. A few moments later, a red and purple mech with rotor blades on his back rounded the side of one of the ships. A look of relief crossed his faceplates when he spied Smokey and the scorpion, and he made a beeline for them.

"There you are, my handsome prince!"

Smokescreen was just plain confused. "Umm... Excuse me?"

The mech looked up at him, rotors quivering slightly. A grin spread across his face. "I'm sorry, I was talking to him." He gestured at the scorpion, which was still nuzzling Smokescreen's chassis. "Scorponok, what do you think you're doing?" He placed his servos on his hips like a scolding creator.

The scorpion whirred happily, clicking all the while. Its glossa then stuck out of the pincers that served as its mouth and it actually licked Smokey's chassis. The mech only raised an optic ridge. "What, are you doing your impression of Jacky now? C'mon Scorpy, let the poor mech up."

In the end, the scorpion had to be pried off of Smokescreen, and even then it adhered itself to his pede while the mech, which appeared to be a helicopter-former, helped Smokescreen stand. He nudged the scorpion away, but it then just decided to sit next to his pede.

"Are you new around here?" the mech asked, optic ridges furrowed. "I don't think I've seen you before."

"Literally just came in," Smokescreen replied honestly. No need to lie about that. "Are you a native?"

The mech smiled proudly and gesticulated widely. "Born and raised! My name's Lonestar, and this little slagger is Scorponok." Scorponok waved his barbed tail through the air like it was a flag.

"I'm Smokescreen." He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be using a cover name. Pit, he hoped not, or he had already failed this mission.

Lonestar smiled widely. It fitted him, like his ash grey faceplates spent a lot of time grinning. The new mech threw an arm around the tactician's shoulders and started leading him Primus-knew-where, Scorponok trailing right behind them. "Well Smokescreen, it's nice to meet you. What brings you to our fair city of Vanos?"

"Eh, I've always been a gambler, wanted to up the ante, so I decided to try my hand at the Game." He had to be very strategic about this. This was a really good chance at getting an in to a session of the Game, if he could only pull it off.

If anything, that smile widened. "Ah, the Game. How's that working for you?"

"I wouldn't know, I haven't got a chance to play it yet." Honesty was the best policy, after all.

"Really? Now that's just a shame. So, do you know the rules?" When Smokey nodded, he asked, "Think you'd be any good?"

"I might be so-so. I don't think I'd be terrible, but I've never played before, so I don't think I'd be winning against a bunch of natives."

It was surprising that Lonestar's grin didn't split his faceplates in two. "So you know your facts. Aero might not mind you." He muttered this second part to himself.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I have a tendency to talk to myself, that's all. Say, Scorpy chose our last crewmember by following him around like he's doing to you." Sure enough, the scorpion was so close behind Smokey that when he stopped walking, he bashed into the Datsun's leg. "Ever think of joining up?"

In those few statements Smokescreen deducted that not only was Lonestar a pirate, but he was implying that he might try to bring him on his crew. Now if he was only lucky enough that Lonestar was a part of _the_ crew, then he would have his whole mission set in less than an orn.

"It crossed my mind. Does that mean you're offering?"

The mech only smirked like he had a secret. "Maybe. Depends how well you can play, and if the captain likes you."

"Captain of what ship?" He had to be very careful now.

"Why, only the greatest ship to ever set port in Vanos, my dear Smokey: The ever-so-lovely _Defiance_."

Oh, this was just _too easy_. So easy, in fact, that Smokescreen decided that maybe he should stay cool and play the fool.

"Oh? And what makes your _Defiance_ better than any other pirate ship?"

Lonestar's jaw dropped. "You really _are_ new here. Well, we're pretty much the big shots 'round here. We are fairly new to that placement, though... Please tell me you know who had that spot before us!"

Smokescreen was confused about why his new acquaintance seemed to be worried over something so trivial. He seemed almost distraught about it; his rotor blades were quivering anxiously. "Um, wasn't it the _Madness_?"

The mech looked supremely relieved. "Oh thank Primus. There's hope for you yet. Tam and Aery are history buffs; they wouldn't be able to stand someone who didn't at least know the bare minimum of Vanoan history." Smokescreen nodded like he knew what, or rather _who_ was being spoken about.

The undercover 'Bot hadn't realized where they were going until Lonestar stopped them in front of a store of some kind. Just by glancing in the windows, Smokey could guess that it was at least a repair shop of sorts, but it looked like it sold things, too.

"Jacky's big brother used to own this place," Lonestar supplied. Smokescreen wasn't sure who "Jacky" was, but he nodded anyway. It was probably someone on the crew. "He was real smart, Jacky's bro. He wanted to get into the Science Academy, but the scholarship they gave him was only for part of the tuition, so Steelgauge got a bunch of the locals together and they paid for him to go to the Academy. Never seen a mech look so happy before. He was worried about Jack, but Aery's creators took him in and told his bro to get the Pit outta here and do something with his life. Prove to the world that something good can come outta Vanos, ya know? Last I heard, he was hittin' it big with the science community. That was 'fore the war, though. Don't know what's going down now."

Smokescreen had a hard time sifting through all of the information, considering that it was constantly referring to mechs he didn't know. "Um, I'm sorry; who are we talking about?"

Lonestar smiled somewhat sheepishly in embarrassment. "I am so sorry; Slang's always telling me I shove out giant info dumps that don't make any sense. I probably didn't even tell you who I was talking about, did I? Promise not to tell Slang about this, or else I lose a bet." Smokescreen stared at him.

"Slag, you don't even know who he is. I am such an idiot sometimes. Okay, 'fore we go in, lemme tell you who everyone is. Jacky, his full name's Blackjack, he's the _Defiance_'s captain. He's probably the most important pirate at the moment, after Steelgauge's disappearance. Okay, lemme back it up a klik. Steelgauge was the captain of the _Madness_, right? Well, Jacky was on the _Madness_ as part of the crew, and Steelgauge basically passed him the torch before he got up and left to do Primus-knows-what. Anyways, he was like Jack's mentor and all, gave him his special goggles and everything – you'll see what I mean.

"When his bro left for the Academy, Jack went to stay with Aery – Aero's his full name, I wouldn't suggest calling him anything but that 'til you're really on the in with him. He's pretty serious, but he's a total softy at spark. I would know – me, Jack and Aery have been best friends since we were sparklings. We're the only natives on the crew, believe it or not. Also, Aery's the Second in Command of the whole thing, so don't get him upset. He's harder to appease than Jack.

"Next to join was Slang. He's our archivist, mainly – Tam and Aery would never let us have a ship without proper archives. They're pretty fun to read, actually, because Slang writes those more like a log or journal, so everything is biased in some way. He also does our communications, little of it that we have. Slang's one of the most personable guys on the crew, next to yours truly, of course.

"After Slang we got the twins. Actually, they came on recommendation from Steelgauge before he disappeared, but it took us a while to track them down. Their designations are Flash and Bolt, but we just call 'em Flashbolt half the time 'cause we're lazy slaggers and they just don't care. They're thieves, by the way, and really good at it. Flash is more likely to chat with you and show some friendliness – Bolt's really quiet, like _really_ quiet, quieter than Tam, but he's really funny if you can get him to talk to you.

"Tam – Timbre – was our latest addition, the one Scorpy chose, and that was a while ago. He came from big credits over in the Towers, but you wouldn't know it, he's so humble. And quiet too, like I said before. He's really shy, but probably the nicest mech you'll ever meet, even though he looks like he could tear you in half. Then again, so does Aery. Anyways, Tam is actually our tactics and all; he forms the plans for 'acquirement' and such."

Smokescreen took in all of the information, doing his best to memorize it for his report to Jazz. "And what do you do?" he asked Lonestar, though if he remembered Jazz's briefing he could already guess.

Lonestar puffed himself up with pride. "I," he said with delight. "Am the pilot! This crew wouldn't go anywhere without me!"

The Autobot watched the pilot carefully. "Couldn't you just get a system to do that?" He thought immediately of Teletraan-One, the sentient computer of sorts that controlled the _Ark_; he had a theory that the computer might have actually had a spark somewhere, but now wasn't the time to ponder it.

Lonestar wilted in almost-offense. "It's not the same! It's traditional for a pirate crew to have a pilot. Besides, computers can't fly well in high speed chases from the Enforcers like I can; they can't change their route on a moment's notice, and they can't process the best maneuvers in an emergency. And Bril spends enough of his time worrying about everything else, the last thing he needs is to have to pilot, too."

"Bril?" The last he had checked, there were only seven members in the crew.

"Oh, he's the system that runs the _Defiance_. Bril, BRIL: Benign Robotic Intelligent Life-form. Me and Slang made him – well, Slang did the designs and all, I just helped put him together."

"You _made _him?" It was hard to imagine Lonestar making much of anything.

"Yep! Slang's really good with computers, and me? I like to dabble in electronics and circuitry and such – I made Scorponok, actually."

"Seriously?" Smokescreen shot an incredulous look at the scorpion, which rubbed against the back of his legs and purred.

"Sure did! Jacky's brother showed me some tricks and let me use some of his stuff – he was an inventor, always coming up with these cool new things. I made Scorpy after he left; never did get a chance to show him off."

"But – doesn't Scorponok have a spark? How did you create him?"

Lonestar gave the psychologist a cheery beam. "Gave him part of my own. He really is my own creation. Bril actually has part of Slang's spark; it's pretty funny, because he's constantly calling Slang his creator. Confuses the Pit out of any guests we may or may not have."

"And you didn't want to see my confusion?" Smokey asked carefully. The helicopter-former gave him a soft smile.

"What can I say? I have a good feeling about you, Smokescreen. I think they guys'll like you. But before anything can be official, we need to see if you're any good at the Game. That's why I dragged you here – Blackjack owns the shop now, and sometimes he hosts sessions of the Game here. Like now. So let's see what you've got, Smokey!"

The undercover mech was not so sure about playing just yet. He knew the Game in theory, but he had never seen it played before. He had been expecting a little more time to acclimate, to get used to the run of things! And here he was, in Vanos for less than an orn and he had already gotten in good with the _Defiance_'s pilot, learned all about the crew, and was being thrust into his first session of the Game. As he had told Jazz earlier, fantastic.

Lonestar pushed gently at Smokescreen's back plating. "C'mon, you'll be fine! I've got faith in you, Smokey. Now let's go in there and show 'em how it's done, aye?" He held the door open for the Autobot.

What else could he do? He was trapped between a rock and a hard place here, or rather his mission and an enthusiastic pirate.

"Aye," he agreed, stepping over the threshold.

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**I planned to get to the session of the Game this chapter, but Lonestar and his big mouth got in the way. Yes, you can imagine Lonestar with a Texan accent – I usually do, but phonetic accents get annoying to write, and I already used that in a character (See: Crash of **_**Seeking Sanity**_** for both cases). Also, there will be one of Slang's archive clips at the start of each chapter, and he signs off on each on differently, so watch that. And as for how Scorponok makes it from Lonestar to Blackout in time for the '07 movie, the canon of which this follows, that will all be explained in time. I can't think of anything else that needs saying at the moment, other than this: Please, please review!**


	3. The Gambler in You

**This chapter gave me a hard time, but I think it turned out alright. If anything about the Game confuses you, please tell me and I'll try to explain it. And yes, I know it shouldn't use a human pack of cards, but it was hard enough coming up with a potentially playable game, so please lay off.**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own Transformers or any of its characters, but I do own all OCs used here, as well as Vanos, the Game, and the situations shown here.**

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_Excerpt from the archives of the _Defiance_, File Name: The Game_

_The Game rules Vanos – that's an old line that the rest of Cybertron used to describe our fair city with. Of course, that was before they decided to pretend we weren't here, or rather that the city wasn't here. Is it wrong of me to equate myself with Vanoans, to rather have them as my family than my own creators? Pit, they're barely creators. One was barely home, and while I guess he tried to do his best by me, he was too young to have to deal with a creation, and dare I say didn't do the best job in all of Cybertron. Then again, he did better than my other creator, who still doesn't know I exist._

_Enough on my wackjob family, this is supposed to be about the Game. Well, I could rant about the rules, but I do enough ranting as it is, don't you think? So I'll skip over that crap and add it in later. If Bril reads through this he may want to add them in for accuracy or something. Primus I love my little supercomputer._

_So, the Game. It's gambling, and it's a social gathering, but it's so much more. It ties together a city of miscreants who have no real reason to stay a group outside of tradition, and let's face it, who cares about tradition anymore? Vanoans, apparently. Did you know that since the pirates cleaned this place up – oh, sweet irony – Vanos has had next to no sparklings born out of bond? I just thought that was interesting._

_Slag it all, none of this has a thing to do with the Game. Oh well, I'll fix it some other time._

_File Archived by: Slang, the only pirate with such terrible daddy-issues (on both sides!)._

Wheeljack woke from recharge with a half-spoken mumble hanging on his lip components. It was an old habit of his, talking in his sleep. Thank Primus he didn't share his quarters with anyone, on the account that nobody wanted to share a room with a mech who was known to blow himself up on an ornly basis.

The inventor pulled himself into a seated position and stared at the wall opposite him while his processor dredged itself from the half-recharging state he was in. With a heavy exhalation through his vents he flopped out of his berth, as that was the only way to truly describe the odd dismount complete with flailing limbs that somehow left the engineer on his pedes, and made for his private wash-racks. For the longest time he just stood under the cleansing spray, still in a stupor with half-formed plans for inventions floating across his CPU.

When he had deemed himself clean enough, he dried off and moved to leave his room, remembering to grab his blast mask as he went. With his mind still hazed by recharge, as it usually was until his morning ration, 'Jack wandered his way to the rec room. He nodded to the few mechs who were occupying the room, smiling fondly at Bluestreak who ran up to tell him of his latest escapade.

"Hello Blue," he mumbled with a half smile nobody could see.

"Hey Wheeljack, you wouldn't believe what me and Sides did the other orn. So there was this thing that..." Bluestreak continued on and Wheeljack nodded politely, half listening to the rambling tale as he contemplated how he should take his energon. He could just go back to his quarters, where he had no problems with removing his mask, but then he would have to leave Bluestreak, and that would make him feel horribly guilty. The inventor knew he was one of the few who would listen to the young gunner's unintentional rants, and he knew how terrible the sniper felt when mechs would just walk away from him, or cut him off. He knew what it was like to be ignored.

So if he couldn't return to his quarters, then he would have to inject his rations into his arm. It was just as effective as ingesting the energon orally, but it didn't wake him up as quickly. While Ratchet frowned on him for it, he would rather Wheeljack injected his energon instead of just going without because he refused to remove his mask where anybody could see him. And considering the only one to see his faceplates in quite some time was Ratchet, and then just for medical purposes and 'Jack was still uncomfortable letting _him_ see him maskless – well, it went without saying that it wasn't an unusual sight to see Wheeljack inject his energon directly into his lines.

Pulling a needle from subspace while nodding at Bluestreak to show he was listening, the engineer filled it with his meal and carefully inserted the end of the instrument in a main energon line in his forearm with a practiced ease and later subspacing it all when he was done to be sterilized for later use.

"...and so then Smokey said he had to go on this mission for Ops, and I asked what it was and he said it wouldn't be Special Ops if he told me, but I think it's really weird that they would pull Smokey specifically for a special mission. I mean, it's not like he's Ops or anything, and we had to bring the _Ark_ all the way out here for some reason and Optimus and Jazz are the only ones who know what's going on other than Smokey and they aren't talking, but I did hear Jazz mention something about him fitting in with the natives of this place the best..."

Curiosity poked the inventor's mind. Smokescreen had been drafted for a secret mission with Special Operations? That was unusual; only mechs with specific skills useful to the particular mission were ever drafted to perform a mission for Ops. So what did Smokescreen have to offer? It wasn't that Wheeljack was jealous – Primus knew he wasn't cut out for Ops work and he was quite content to tinker with his inventions – but he was intrigued to say the least.

So what skills did Smokescreen have? Well, psychology, obviously, which was good for any mech involved with Ops. He was a fairly skilled tactician, though not as good as Prowl or even Trailbreaker. He could gamble like nobody's business-

"Oh, no." Wheeljack shook his helm slowly, gradually picking up speed. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Bluestreak!" His sharp call drew the gunner from his ramble. "Where are we? What's this place called? Please, this is serious."

Blue was confused about what had upset Wheeljack so suddenly, and did his best to answer his friend. "Uh, I'm not sure what it's called because like I said Prime and Jazz aren't sharing and won't tell, but the _Ark_ is hovering over some place, we landed there really, really early this orn and then just went back to hovering over it, I don't know why, though, because-"

"I need to see what it looks like!" Wheeljack jumped from his seat and all but ran for the exit. "Sorry Blue, this is really urgent!"

He ran down the hallway at full speed, making some mechs wonder if his lab was about to explode again and if they should be looking for cover. The inventor skidded into Prime's office without bothering to knock, which shocked Optimus Prime and Jazz, the two occupants who had been discussing Smokescreen's mission.

"Prime!" Wheeljack barked uncharacteristically, surprising the duo even more. "Where are we?"

Jazz cocked his head to the side and gave the inventor a lazy smile. "Well Wheeljack my friend, we are on the _Ark_; it's this ship that belongs to the Autobot elite and we have been calling it home for quite some time now."

"Please, Jazz, I'm serious. What area is the _Ark _hovering over?"

Optimus sat up straighter in his seat and folded his servos. "Wheeljack, I'm afraid that information is classified. The less who know about this mission, the safer it is for all of us."

"Prime, please!" Wheeljack turned pleading optics on his commanders, his fins flashing brightly with his anxiety. "This is extremely serious – you don't even have to tell me, just let me see an aerial shot."

Never before had the Prime or his third in command seen the normally jovial engineer so distraught about something. That was what led Optimus to pull up an aerial view of the city below the _Ark_ taken by a camera located on the ship's exterior. It couldn't hurt anything, right? It wasn't like Wheeljack would see anything at all recognizable of a city none of the Autobots had ever been to before.

Wheeljack took in the newly formed image as quickly as his CPU would allow. As soon as he comprehended it fully, he almost fritzed his logic chips. That starburst shape, starting in the blindingly bright city center and moving out along the off-shooting streets like rays of light; the small, twinkling threads of light that connected the rays of the starburst. Only one city on all of Cybertron was laid out like that.

"Oh, Primus I was hoping I was wrong," the inventor moaned.

Optimus watched him carefully. "What's wrong?"

"Prime, we need to get out of this airspace _now_ before we get shot out of the fragging sky!" To say that the two officers were surprised at the outburst would be a severe understatement.

Cautiously, Jazz said, "Listen, I'm not sure what you think you know, but we are completely invisible to any mech or femme on the ground."

Wheeljack scoffed, actually scoffed while his head-fins flashed brightly to the ever-rising shock and confusion of his superior officers. And they had thought the swearing was bad. "Like you know slag about the scanners they have. I know for a personal fact that those ships down there are equipped with some of the most high-tech scanning systems Cybertron has ever seen, and they could most definitely spot you sitting up here like, like, like some giant sitting target! If they even suspect that you're trying to spy or form another attack they'll go ballistic and blow us all to kingdom come!"

Jazz was more intrigued than he had ever been in his life. "And how would you know this?"

The engineer realized his error and tried to gloss over it, but it was too late. "I know a lot of minutiae about Cybertron; I recognized the city from a picture I saw once-"

"Wrong," the TIC interjected. "This city was dumped from all texts vorns ago, before you or I or probably even Prime here was created. I don't think even Ratchet or Ironhide know about it, which leads me to believe that you know a lot more than could be found in any datapad."

"I don't, I swear! It's just things I've heard in passing, other mechs talking-"

"What's this city called?" Jazz demanded, taking an intimidating step forward, startling Wheeljack.

"Now Jazz, this isn't appropriate," Prime began. He had no idea what was happening, other than that apparently Wheeljack knew more about this place than anything Jazz's intel had picked up on.

"All I want is the city's name, 'Jack. We all know you know it; it's just one simple little word. Say it."

"...I can't..."

"Say it!"

Wheeljack was unnerved and startled and maybe a little fearful due to Jazz's sudden onslaught of intensity and inquiries. But he couldn't talk, it was sworn, he was loyal and they hadn't done anything wrong...

"I made a promise, okay? I can't say anything."

"Who are you loyal to, hmm, 'Jack?" Jazz kept up his tough act even though he was like an excited sparkling on the inside. If this was what he thought it was, they may have more of an in to this place than they had ever imagined they could. Though he was a little remorseful that he had to scare Wheeljack into giving up the information.

"The Autobots, of course!"

"Then just tell me the name. I know it already, it's not like you're giving anything up."

"Then why the Pit are you playing all of these fragging mind games?"

"Just say it, 'Jack." Wheeljack shook his helm again at Jazz's request, turning beseeching optics on Optimus instead.

"Please, Prime..."

Optimus Prime didn't like how upset Wheeljack was, but he nodded encouragingly at him. Whatever information the inventor had, they needed it if they wanted to keep a step ahead of the Decepticons. "It would be for the best of all Autobots if you shared this with us, Wheeljack. I assure you that no harm will come to you for whatever information you divulge."

The mech shook his helm wearily. "It's not me I'm worried about." He looked up at Jazz, who was still watching him with demanding optics.

"It's Vanos, alright? It's called Vanos!" Wheeljack wanted to shrivel up and die when he realized how strained and hoarse his voice sounded. Something called pride? Why no, he'd never had that – oh look, there it was flying out the window!

Jazz rested on the heels of his pedes in contentment, satisfied for the moment. Wheeljack knew about Vanos. And was that a hint of an accent he had detected on the word?

Optimus watched the engineer closely. "Wheeljack, if you would please expand on how you know this, and how you know about the systems of the ships below us. Better yet, how you knew there were ships below us."

Wheeljack just shook his helm, collapsing into one of the chairs across from the Prime. "I am so, so screwed." He exhaled heavily, long and slow. "You need to promise me that if I tell you I can't expand on something, you'll stop asking."

"And why would we need to do that?" Jazz asked with a flash of his visor.

"I told you, I made a promise and it's one I'll keep forever. And I'm only talking on the conditions that you keep everything I tell you a secret and don't use it against anyone other than the Decepticons, and that you don't manipulate others with it – I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me. And you need to get this ship out of here soon, because the pirates won't hesitate to shoot at it – the _Ark_ has an extremely conspicuous size and signature that they'll recognize in a pulse of your spark."

Prime nodded slowly, mostly still trying to take in the idea that Wheeljack, of all mechs, new about this Vanos; he even knew about the pirates! "I agree to those conditions, and I'm sure Jazz does as well." He stared at the TIC until he grudgingly nodded.

Once again, 'Jack sighed. "I guess, long story short I should tell you that..." He trailed off, still having reservations about sharing this huge piece of his past, of himself.

"Go on," Optimus said softly. Jazz gestured encouragingly and smiled disarmingly.

"...I'm a native."

"Native of what?" asked Jazz carefully.

"Vanoan native. I was born here. This...is my home."

* * *

Without warning, Lonestar gave Smokescreen an "encouraging" push from behind, effectively thrusting him into the building. The undercover 'Bot stood there staring at the group of mechs around a table in the front room, all of whom were staring at him. Before he could think of something charming to say, Lonestar shoved in behind him, making him stumble forward another step.

"C'mon Smokes, no freezing up on me now!" he said jovially as he closed the door behind himself; Scorponok's tail just made it in before the door slammed shut. "They aren't too scary. Well, okay Slang's a little creepy looking, but you'll be fine if you don't look at him directly."

"Hey!" objected a purple mech seated at, or rather on the table. This was presumably Slang. Smokescreen had the strange sense that this mech was familiar somehow, but he couldn't quite place his digit on exactly who he was reminded of, and the thought slipped from his helm once he saw some of the other mechs in the room.

While this Slang had an easygoing, if slightly guarded grin on his faceplates, some of these others looked downright hostile. Mainly the huge royal blue triple-changer standing at the back of the room. His faceplates held narrowed cobalt optics set in aristocratic silver features twisted into an annoyed, suspicious scowl. The Autobot was immediately fearful that he had somehow let slip his true reason for being here, but he knew there was no way for the mech to know this. It seemed that the triple-changer had just decided to dislike him, and was going to attempt to use his imposing size to intimidate the newcomer.

Squaring his shoulders, Smokescreen looked the mech directly in the optics and smiled cheekily, both delighted with and made nervous by the angered look his grin had elicited.

Lonestar leaned in and whispered in his audio, "Did I forget to mention that Aero doesn't like newcomers?"

"Yes," Smokescreen hissed back.

"Hehe, yeah, well I, uh, wasn't sure if you'd still come if you knew what was awaiting you. Trust me, the rest of 'em are a lot nicer. Look, the twins don't seem to mind!"

Smokey followed his optics to a pair of similar-looking mechs, alternating blue and green paint covering their armor. Both had wide, anxious gold optics that were leveled on the Autobot. The two had their shoulders pressed together, as if they couldn't decide who should be hiding behind whom. But the one on the left, who was predominantly green, offered up a small, shy smile, which the other mirrored shortly after, though with less warmth and self-assurance.

If these were their happy faces, then what did their scared faces look like?

These twins, Flash and Bolt, presumably, were the farthest to the right of this group, and behind and slightly to the left of them was a boxy black mech who reminded him vaguely of Trailbreaker, though not quite as large. It was almost laughable that the still-big mech had such a nervous look on his faceplates. He glanced around the room abruptly, light-blue optics flittering from place to place as if looking for an escape route before their owner clenched them shut tightly, fisted his servos, and seemed to force himself to buckle down and stand his ground. This must be the shy one, whose name was completely escaping him at the moment.

Next in the circle came the aforementioned Slang, whose purple features were hauntingly familiar and yet blaringly foreign at the same time. The mech, in Smokescreen's mind, looked like he belonged in a boxier frame than the one that held him, which was lither than Smokescreen's CPU had expected. Whoever he looked like, his processors couldn't help comparing him to the unknown person or persons. But his shining ruby optics were only the slightest bit reserved, and that all-too-familiar lopsided grin was comforting, even if he couldn't remember where he'd seen it before.

Next to Slang and in front of the fuming Aero leaned a mech, one slender yellow hip balancing him against the edge of the table on just the proper angle that the table held most of his weight while he remained in a seemingly standing position. In the mech's servos, which were colored an almost spontaneously placed mix of blue and yellow with almost delicate silver-grey digits, was a pack of Cybertronian cards. The mech fanned them and quickly reformed the deck, idly repeating the complicated gesture with a light, practiced ease. Smokescreen knew for a fact how hard it was to master that task, given that he'd taught himself to do the same once upon a time.

He chanced a glance at the faceplates of the mech, and was vaguely surprised to find a set of black, green-lensed goggles resting on the top of his yellow-streaked helm. Goggles were something that usually only appeared in inventors, and by the way he was playing with those cards, this was no inventor. If anything, this was the captain, especially considering that he had been able to place a name to all other mechs present.

The captain wasn't as, well, roguish as Smokey had originally anticipated. A captain of a group of outlaws made one imagine a rough n' tumble mech with scars that told a story and a face that was either sly, cunning, and drop-deactivated gorgeous or something only a creator could love.

This mech was neither.

If anything, he was like a turbo-puppy, a sloppy yet forever charming and endearing grin on his faceplates that obviously came easily and often with a cocked helm revealing his latent curiosity. He was younger than expected, though maybe that was just because his appearance was less gruesome than Smokescreen had guessed it would be. If anything, his look was young, fresh, and that of someone whose killer smile was the only thing that took their faceplates from ordinary to something to look at.

"Who's this now?" the mech he had been watching asked with a lightly raspy tone – he wouldn't be beating Starscream in an annoying-voice contest soon.

Lonestar's own continuous grin answered the captain's. "This is Smokescreen. He's new in town and a gambler, as he says. Thought we might like to try him out."

"Oh?" Aero, the triple-changer who it seemed had immediately decided to despise him took a menacing step forward. "Why, pray tell, Star, did you decide to make this decision on your own?" His voice was still hard and cold, yet his optics softened on Lonestar in a fond way.

"Because Scorpy likes him, and you know my Handsome Prince knows how to pick 'em. Look at Tam!"

"Tam," or Timbre, so it seemed, didn't look like he wanted anybody looking at him, the undercover Autobot couldn't help but think. Everyone's optics fell on the nervous black mech, who Lonestar had mentioned as being from the Towers and "really shy." That was a definite understatement of the vorn.

The captain, seeing the frozen look on Timbre's faceplates, spoke up, drawing attention back to himself. "So, Smokescreen. I'm Blackjack, captain of the _Defiance_. Behind me is Aero, Star basically introduced Slang, that's Tam over there, short for Timbre, and the twins are Flash and Bolt. You've already met Lonestar. So, think you can play the Game?"

_This is it_, Smokey thought. "I can give it a go."

Blackjack grinned widely. "Good. We have some mechs coming over for a session any moment now. You up for that?"

Smokescreen could only watch the easy grin on the captain's face as he nodded sharply. Blackjack's smile grew. "All right, let's get to it then!"

This was how the undercover Autobot found himself surrounded by pirates a few breems later. Some of them did look like his preset image of hardened criminals, most being scarred in some way and almost all sporting gruff demeanors. It didn't escape the Praxian that all of these pirates were older than the crew of the _Defiance_ – so how had they come to power? It didn't seem an easy feat to surpass these older, more experienced thieves and smugglers, yet somehow the respect had been gained.

Blackjack grinned at him from across the table as he dealt cards. Of the _Defiance_'s crew, only Blackjack and Slang were playing. There weren't rules on how many members of a crew you could have per game, but Lonestar had told him that it was an unspoken agreement that only two or three play, out of politeness.

There were nine other mechs playing, calling for two packs of cards. Smokescreen found himself wedged between two unknown pirates who smelled of high-grade and engine fuel, making the psychologist imagine them as some sort of ship-maintenance workers. It was mildly surprising to find that most pirate crews were many times larger than that of the _Defiance_ – then again, they also didn't appear to have sentient operating systems on their ships to take some of the workload.

With trepidation Smokey watched the blue and yellow hands pass the cards around the table, feeling multiple sets of optics on him, melting through his plating with their suspicious stares. What, did he give off some sort of "Liar!" vibe?

"All right, we all know the rules?" asked Blackjack with a sly smirk. As the host of this session, he was automatically the dealer and the impromptu referee, if the situation called for it. At the chorus of grunts and half-spoken answers, he only smiled more. "Okay, you little fraggers, I want a good, clean game. Nothing illegal, because we aren't mechs of that horrid sort." This received a few hoarse laughs.

Blackjack looked up directly into Smokescreen's optics, his own alight with a mischievous sort of excitement. "Let's play."

Smokey did his best to keep up with the whirlwind of activity that followed those words. Everyone flipped over their home rows, which had been placed face-down, so they could all assess each other's cards in comparison to their own. The opening bet was one-hundred credits, which each mech supplied. Smokescreen was extremely interested in how some mechs dumped in those symbolic chips he'd read about in that guide, circular cuts of metal with glyphs inscribed in them.

In his own hand was a red five, a black ten, a black ace, and a black three. Deciding to try using the black ace and three, Smokescreen checked his own home row for any matching cards. He needed a red two and a red four. Nothing in his home row matched these cards, so he checked out the others'. It was while he was perusing the home rows, idly listening to mechs switching cards, a few "selling" their cards for credits or items, that he felt a nudge to his side. The mech to his left, one of them that smelled like fuel, was trying to catch his attention.

"Hey, you willing to part with that seven?" The nameless mech gestured at the red seven currently residing in his home row. He had no use for it, and his kinder side said that it would be nice of him to trade with the mech. His gambler side, which had recently flared to life as the cards were dealt, scoffed at that. He should trade if he could get something from it, not if it was "nice." At the moment his goal was to win a round and impress some mechs and get onto the crew, not to make nice with others.

Still, he considered the offer. There was nothing in the mech's home row that interested him. "Depends, what are you offering?"

The mech grinned at his light tone. "I'll give ya twenty credits."

Considering how high-stakes this session seemed to be – "This is the big leagues, here," Lonestar had said – that was actually a bit on the low side.

"Hmm, you sure? And here I liked it so much." Carefully, he watched for the mech's reaction.

His optics narrowed shrewdly before he let out a loud laugh. "Primus, 'Jack, you sure know how to pick 'em." He remade his offer, for forty credits this time, and Smokescreen agreed, taking the proffered credits and relinquishing the card before grabbing a new one from the deck. A red queen, nothing he needed. Then again, he wasn't here for any real object, so making back forty of the credits he had put into the pot was a pretty good start.

Blackjack had been watching this exchange carefully, and gave the mech one of his grins. "Nah, he's another of Star and Scorpy's finds," he said, chuckling whilst deftly rearranging the cards in his servo into some odd order, sliding one of his home row to another player as a card was passed to him.

Smokescreen had to put such thought into it, and here he could see Blackjack making trades left and right. He wasn't sure what strategy this was, but it must have been working, because before the trading was even done and the first card of the round drawn, he had smacked four cards on the table, loudly proclaiming, "Done!" and sitting back in his seat with his arms crossed proudly over his chassis.

Indeed, he did have a winning hand, numbers seven through ten of alternating colors laid out in a neat row. The other players groaned loudly. Smokescreen was just in awe. Maybe he'd just had a good hand?

Lonestar chuckled from where he was standing behind Smokescreen, between his doorwings which twitched at the close proximity. He whispered in the Autobot's audio, "He's tough to beat 'cause he barely even works with the cards he starts with. He's smart like his brother, just in a different way. Checks out the other players' home rows and uses cards from those to put together a hand by making deals and trades. If you know where to look, you can find a couple good hands just sitting in the home rows."

The covert mech took this to mind. Maybe he shouldn't be so closed-minded next round, not so worried about having a set few cards to look for. It was quick thinking that could win or lose the game. His inner gambler cheered at this idea. _Yes, yes, just a few more risks, just a few more heat-of-the-moment decisions. It's all for the good of the mission, after all._

Yeah, that was it.

He watched as Blackjack gathered his earnings and reset the wager, this time at three-hundred credits. Once upon a time, during his days of true addiction to gambling, Smokescreen had made bets like this, bets much higher than this, all the time. It had almost lost him his belongings and his home before he decided to clean up his act and quit gambling altogether.

This round, Smokescreen worked to think more on his pedes and less strategically. The thought passed through his CPU that maybe this wasn't the best idea for his addiction, but the need to win, not only for the mission but to prove to himself that he still could, prevailed.

By the end of the trading he had three cards of a four he could need, and on a whim he traded the last outlier card for one that, while it didn't necessarily fit the other three in his hand, could be used in the case of his current line-up falling through. He was surprised that the drawing of cards actually made it around to him this time, and even more surprised when he drew a card that he actually could use.

For a moment he stared at his hand, and then he barely resisted the urge to shutter his optics in shock. He paused for one moment, two, and then discarded a card from his hand, folded his hand into a neat row, and placed it on the table.

"Done," he muttered softly, still in awe at what he had done.

The others at the table leaned in to see his hand, to ensure the rookie wasn't making things up, or worse and more embarrassingly, reading his hand wrong.

But now, the red nine and jack, the black ten and queen, it all meant one thing – Smokescreen had actually won a round.

The mechs grumbled again as they had for Blackjack, but it was good-natured more than it was angry or upset. Lonestar had told him that these were all old players of the Game, mechs who could easily accept when they had been beaten. Apparently some new players were angrier and quicker to violence when they lost big.

Smokey just sat in wonder and astonishment as he gathered his winnings, setting the stakes at two-hundred and fifty credits, telling his inner gambler to shut it when it began protesting that this was no time to go soft and back down, who needed to be safe when they had just won a couple thousand credits? He held his ground against his addiction, cycling air through his vents as he tried to calm himself and his fluttering doorwings.

He had won. Now he just had to hope that his lucky streak would stay with him, at least until he got on the crew.

Smokescreen was unaware of a conversation concerning him being held in the same room.

Lonestar leaned against a wall between Timbre and Aero. "Told you he could do it."

Aero shook his helm, still staring scathingly at the newcomer. "I don't like him. He's hiding something dangerous. Nobody just shows up like that, never having played before and suddenly winning."

Star laughed. "Sure they do! Slang did it, who's to say Smokey can't?"

"I wish you wouldn't call him that; it wouldn't do to get attached."

"Oh, c'mon, Aery. He's a nice guy, if you'd stop glaring at him."

The triple-changer shook his helm once more in disbelief.

"I like him," a soft voice said. Lonestar looked up at Timbre, who had silently been following their conversation, and smiled.

"See, Tam likes him, I like him, I'm pretty sure that Slang likes him, and Jackie _definitely_ sees something in him."

Aero was still unconvinced. "Twins?" he asked, glancing at the two on his other side, who were sitting cross-legged atop an empty worktable.

Flash watched Smokescreen for a long moment, picking at a strip of peeling paint on his pede as he did. "He seems nice enough, I guess. We don't really know him yet."

"Exactly! We don't know him, so we shouldn't just blindly trust him!" Aero hissed, trying to keep the conversation from the players of the Game.

The mostly green twin cocked his helm at Aero with a small upward quirk of his lip components. "I said we don't know the mech yet, I didn't say nothing about not getting to know him at all."

Aero groaned. "Ugh, not you too. Bolt? You like him?"

The bluer twin seemed to contemplate this before shrugging his shoulders. When this just gained a raised optic from each of his watchers save his brother, he nodded his helm, barely a downward turn of the chin, but a nod nonetheless.

"That settles it!" Lonestar whisper-hissed happily. "We ask 'Jack, and if he's in, then the majority wins! Well, actually the majority's already won, but it would be nice if our dear captain agrees, which I'm sure he will."

The large blue mech still looked unhappy. "Fine, we'll try things your way. But I still don't trust him. There's something up with him, and I plan to find out."

"You worry too much."

_You don't worry enough_, Aero thought sadly. _I don't want to see any of you get hurt because of this._

* * *

**Well, I like this chapter. Do you? Tell me in a review!**


	4. Family is a Relative Term

**I've been working on this chapter for about a month, having it open whenever I'm on the computer, ignoring my messages and emails for it, and not making much headway. Finally, **_**finally**_** I forced myself to sit down and finish it, and I think I'm okay with it.**

**So what have I been up to in the mean time while in my writing slump? Well, school restarted and scared off Landorf, the happiest of all the little pixies and my muse. Oh, and I have been thinking about Transformers. Here are a few key instances:**

**Kids are selling chocolate and one was trying to convince us that homemade chocolate wasn't as good as the factory chocolate he was selling. I told him that factory chocolate didn't have love, and he said it did because "the machines make love to the chocolate." That is no joke. Take it as you will, and if you're like me you thought of hot, chocolate-coated mechs. Hey, if someone wants to write that, go ahead; just be sure to tell me.**

**Second instance – my tech teacher was innocently talking about terminology and kept using the word interfacing. As if I wasn't already falling out of my chair laughing, he said this: "And interfacing, you can do it with any technology. You can interface with your cell phone!" Poor Mr. Bear. Not only am I purposely misspelling your name, but I can't help but laugh now when I walk into your class.**

**The last and the best TF instance was today. We were sent to the back of the tech room (another tech class) and we were working with different parts to make machines. All of the supplies were in nice, neatly labeled boxes. While walking past one rack of boxes I froze, turned around, took a step closer, and double-taked. It said "****Interface Cables." I think I died in that moment.**

**So, enough of my little amusing Transformers moments in real life. Onto the long-awaited story!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any of its characters, but I do own all OCs used here, as well as Vanos, the Game, and the situations shown here.**

* * *

_Excerpt from the archives of the _Defiance_, File Name: Family._

_Family – that's what we are in Vanos, a family. A big, dysfunctional, unrelated family of mechs with no one else to care about them. Some of us were born here, some of us came here to outrun our pasts, but we're all the same here – family. Here, they don't care about your past, or all of the ways that you've failed in life. They just care about whom you are and the fact that you're here, as a part of their lives._

_And in the end, that's all that matters, right?_

_File Archived by: Slang, the most sentimental pirate Cybertron has ever seen._

Blackjack said his goodbyes to the last of his "guests" while the other crewmembers milled about. Slang and Lonestar were talking quietly and gesticulating excitedly with each other while Timbre looked on with a faint, tired smile. The twins were sitting atop a table, one of them – Smokescreen thought it was Flash – recharging against the other's shoulder struts. Aero was leaning against a wall, glaring at Smokescreen for all he was worth.

And Smokey? He was feeling extremely awkward. Just to keep his servos busy he packed up the paraphernalia of the Game, sorting the deck into its two original decks that had comprised it.

Should he be doing this? It seemed like he should do something nice for the crew for inviting him, but then again, what right did he have to still be here? He wasn't a part of the crew – at least not as of yet – and he didn't want to presume himself special when he really might just be overstaying his welcome. Yes, that was most likely it. Nobody had approached him yet because they were silently wishing he would leave like the rest of the players.

Abruptly he made an about-face and approached the door, making as if to leave. "Thanks for having me," he said quietly to Blackjack. He was reaching for the handle when a servo clapped down on his shoulder, barely missing his doorwing, and he was spun around gently yet quite firmly.

"Where are you going?" Blackjack canted his helm and gave him a bemused and practically affectionate smile. Smokescreen groaned internally. Someone should make that mech wear a faceguard or something, because his resolve-breaking expressions were going to be the end of the psychologist and occasional tactician. They were just too fragging innocent to ignore, and knowing that he wasn't all that naive just made it worse for the Autobot.

"I need to, uh, start trying to find a place to stay for the night." Smokescreen hated how his voice cracked as he spoke.

Lonestar approached, his rotors twitching softly as he made a noise of confusion. "What do you mean?"

He really couldn't figure out why they didn't understand him. "I mean I have no place to stay for the night, so I should best leave now so I can find one before it gets even later."

Blackjack laughed like this was somehow amusing. All Smokescreen could process was that the captain's servo was still resting on his shoulder.

"You can stay here, of course!"

That hadn't been expected _at all_. "Um, that's really, really kind of you, but I think I should leave. I mean, you barely know me, and I don't want to overstay my welcome-"

"Nonsense! We like to show good faith in new prospects. Besides, Aero likes to glare at them. Makes him feel whole." Blackjack waved his servo as if none of what Smokescreen had said mattered to him. "Tell you what; you stick around and we'll take you on a tour of our ship tomorrow, hmm?"

Smokescreen's optical ridges rose in surprise. If he understood the underlying meaning there, they wanted to get to know him better and take him on the ship...could this mission really be this easy? But the idea of staying with the crew...well, he wasn't so sure about that. Not with Aero glaring at him like that.

"Well, uh, that's a little sudden, don't you think? I mean, we've only just met and all, and I wouldn't want to impose on you-"

"Nope, I've made my decision. You're staying." The captain crossed his arms and wore a smug smile. The Autobot found himself oddly infuriated by this. So what, because he was the captain and some big shot with the pirates he expected everyone to just listen to him?

The psychologist was about to tell Blackjack just where he could put his decision (and his unwavering, spark-stopping smiles) when the pirate continued, "After all, if you're gonna join the crew you gotta get used to hanging around with us."

Oh. Well then, _that_ changed things up a bit. That was a straight answer that yes, if he stayed with them he could get the first chunk of his mission done, and all in one orn. Dang, he was good. Were all Ops missions this easy? If so, everyone had really heightened perceptions of just how "cool" Special Operations was.

"Uh, yeah, right." Did that sound sarcastic? He wasn't sure. 'Yeah, right?' Maybe they thought he was being snarky. "I meant, yeah, yes. Yes." Was that clear enough? And why in the dark, greasy depths of the Pit was he losing his cool now?

Blackjack's helm canted further to the side, and his smile looked like it might split his faceplates horizontally. "So it's a yes?" he repeated with a smirk. It was a light jibe, a playful one. Like something you might say to a friend, a comrade.

Why were all of these mechs so quick to accept him? First Lonestar, now Blackjack, and Slang didn't seem far behind. Only Aero seemed to be truly holding him in suspicion, as he should. Did they not know that there was a war going on here? Even if it hadn't affected Vanos for the most part, it was still most definitely there, and it seemed as if none of these mechs really comprehended that.

This wasn't peacetime – this was war, and in war you didn't trust a word anyone said until you had a good reason, and Smokescreen knew that he most certainly didn't give off the most inviting, believable vibes. Really, he had been kind and grateful so far, but he didn't believe he was really just so inviting looking that they all decided to just trust him right off the bat. These were supposed to be the top pirates on all of Cybertron, right? So what were they doing trusting some mech who they hadn't even run a background check on? For all they knew, he could be an agent of the Council, which had gone underground recently, or maybe a Decepticon, or – Smokescreen winced – an Autobot.

Then it occurred to him. They should know better; they _did_ know better. This whole thing, this staying the night like a sparkling would at a friend's house, it was all a test, a big test. Keep him near them so he couldn't run back to a higher-up, so he couldn't leak information on them. So they could observe him like a turbo-rat in a lab, find out just what his game was. He could only hope that he could pass their tests with his cover intact.

Really, he only could have one answer to the pirate's joking inquiry.

"Yes."

* * *

The door shut, almost imposing as it drew closed on the pair, leaving the undercover Autobot locked in a room with a mech he most certainly didn't trust, one who most certainly didn't trust him. One who also was impossible to read.

Smokescreen almost wished they had shoved him with Aero – at least he knew where he stood when it came to the triple-changer. This one, on the other servo, was an enigma and he knew it.

"So whatcha wanna do now?" Slang threw himself across his berth on his front, looking languidly up at Smokescreen with those annoyingly familiar optics. Really, if Blackjack was like a turbo-puppy, then this was his twin in that aspect.

The psychologist sent a tired and hopefully meaningful look at the spare berth that had been brought into the room just for Smokescreen – supposedly, at least. He wasn't so sure he should believe that. After all, from what he had gleaned every mech shared a room when at the shop, simply because the living quarters above the old shop weren't large enough for each mech to have their own room. But from what Smokescreen had gathered from hushed, supposedly private conversations, Slang usually shared this room with Lonestar. The helicopter was with Timbre, supposedly "as usual," but Smokescreen was almost sure that Timbre was the one with his own room, considering his size and his probable paranoia to go with his timid nature.

The twins shared a room, as expected, and surprisingly so did Aero and Blackjack – that was kind of odd in itself. Yet all of this had led Smokescreen to understand that there were set room arrangements, and from the look of this room and what he had glimpsed of others, this was most definitely Lonestar's room, and this berth had not been moved in here recently.

That meant that Lonestar had been moved so Smokescreen could be forced to room with Slang for the night, which meant that there was something about Slang that made the rest of the crew want him to watch the newcomer. Maybe he was the best at reading mechs, or maybe they knew that Smokescreen would have a hard time trying to understand the other mech, but all of this was most assuredly premeditated.

Or maybe he was paranoid and they just didn't want to place Smokescreen in the only free space with Timbre for the fear that the larger mech just might have a panic attack in the night and send himself into stasis. But then why all of the secrecy? The only reason Smokescreen could imagine would be to keep from hurting his feelings, and he strongly doubted that. Maybe Lonestar would care about that, or possibly Blackjack, but the rest of them most likely wouldn't give a flying leap.

Smokey realized that he had left Slang still awaiting a reply, and decided to rectify that. "I was thinking that I would just recharge. It's been a long orn, you know?"

Slang huffed through his vents and pouted petulantly. "Oh, come on! We're supposed to stay up all night talking! Haven't you ever been on a sleepover before?"

This caused the Autobot to pause. Had he been on a sleepover? No, not that he could recall. He hadn't had many friends as a youngling. Sure, he'd had acquaintances that he was on good terms with, and other mechs and femmes that he would talk to in class and sit with at lunch and such, but he had never been in contact with any of them outside of an educational setting. Friends and play-dates weren't really his creators' thing.

"No," he murmured softly, looking the pirate dead in the optics. "No, I haven't."

Slang appeared taken aback, if the naked shock on his faceplates said anything. "You serious?" he asked, mouth agape. At Smokescreen's nod, he shook his helm in disbelief. "Mech, that's messed up. I mean, I thought my life was strange and all, but never having sleepovers? That's just wrong!"

The Praxian really couldn't understand what was so confusing. Plenty of mechs didn't have friends over at their homes.

Stiffly (and in a way that was uncomfortably reminiscent of Prowl) he said, "I don't see what is so odd about it. My creators were rather strict, and didn't want to have multiple sparklings around their home. As they said, if they did, they would have had more than one creation." Primus, not only did he sound like a Prowl-wannabe, but he sounded like a total boring slaghead! _Fan_tastic.

"Whoa, wait a breem, you never had friends over either? That's more than messed up, that's just depravity. You, my fine friend, are a deprived mech and I, your wonderful host, shall fix that."

"Uh, I was really just planning to recharge," Smokescreen repeated in vain. Slang, however, had already made his decision.

"Nope, we're gonna chat 'cause otherwise I'm gonna blast some music to help me fall into recharge, and Primus knows how long that'll take. So, let's get to it, aye?" Slang gestured at the empty berth.

What was it with everyone around here saying "aye?" Was it some sort of pirate thing?

In any case, Smokescreen found himself sitting cross-legged on the unfamiliar berth, having an awkward (for him, at least) conversation with a mech he had just met.

"So your creators, were they upper-class or just hardafts?"

Well that was a little prying, wasn't it? Still, Smokescreen didn't see how it could hurt to answer honestly.

"A bit of both. They were more middle-class, but they were social climbers. Even if they couldn't be upper-class, they could pretend they were and hope to become so one orn. It never did work out for them, what with Praxus being destroyed and all."

"Yeah," Slang murmured, his optics – Decepticon red optics, Smokescreen noted – clouding with a faraway look. His helm then snapped up and a beatific, Blackjack-worthy smile split his faceplates.

"So you came from a pretty good background, right?"

"Yeah – you?"

Slang paused for a moment, weighing his words. "My dad, he raised me good enough, well as he could. Wasn't the best, but it could've been worse."

Smokescreen noted how he mentioned one creator and not the other. So was his second creator deactivated or absentee? Somehow he didn't think Slang would appreciate the question, so he held his glossa.

"Mmm. You get along well with him, at least?"

The pirate was silent once more, his optics dimming in thought. Finally he said in a voice far too soft, "I guess, in the beginning. When I was a sparkling we got along fine – then again, what sparkling doesn't get along with their creators?" He chuckled softly and rolled onto his back, then folded his arms behind his helm and looked up at the plain grey metal of the ceiling, plastered over with colorful posters advertising for different concerts and events long since passed.

_What sparkling doesn't get along with their creators?_ Smokescreen thought. _Maybe I really just _was_ that messed up._

A flicker of a memory tickled at the back of his processors, snidely calling, "I'm here! I'll always be here!" Smokescreen resisted the urge to snarl as he forcefully pulled all of his thought processes away from the subject that ailed them. It was one set of memories and a thought sequence that no amount of defrag could remove from his CPU, but with enough firewalls and practice as a psychologist he could bury the whole thing. Not the healthiest approach and by no means what he would suggest a patient do, but hey, do as I teach, not as I do.

Besides, he knew for a fact that thinking on his own troubled past, however simple and mundane his "troubles" were, just brought the thoughts to the forefront of his processors, and confronting them just left him wishing for a place to curl up in a miserable ball of unsettling sparklinghood angst.

Slang continued talking and Smokescreen gladly listened, not only for the sake of his mission but also to draw his mind from the thoughts of his past that terrorized him. "Terrorize" – Primus, he really _was_ a whiny sparkling about all of this, wasn't he? Like simple emotional neglect could be terrorizing.

He jolted as Slang spoke. "As I got older, I guess we just grew apart. He had his job, I had school. It was like we were two strangers living in the same home. He worked at night and slept during the day, and with school I obviously kept an opposite schedule. We might've seen each other in passing, but we didn't really say much. After a while, we just stopped talking. We didn't even know each other anymore."

Oh, Smokescreen knew how that felt. He had barely known his creators to begin with. They wouldn't let him know them, and they didn't care to know him.

"The big problems came when he started dating. I mean, I knew about other younglings my age that had creators that were dating, but it had never occurred to me that _my_ creator would. He was my dad, you know? I didn't want to think about him going out with some random mech or femme. When I got upset, he got pissed with me. Told me that I was old enough to be mature about it and that he should be allowed some happiness in life. That one...that really stung. I knew he wasn't fantastically delighted with life and all, but I'd thought that he was content enough, living with me. Guess I'd overestimated my own worth to him."

Smokey wanted to comment, to tell Slang that it was alright, similar things had happened to him – his creators may have stuck together, but he had grown up hearing about how much creators, obviously _other_ younglings' creators, loved and cared for their creations and each other, and he had never seen that fulfilled in his own life. Those failed expectations, when he acknowledged them for what they were, had cut an unfixable hole in his spark that he still had to this very orn.

But he couldn't say this, because he had never told anybody about it and he wasn't sure he could bring himself to now. Besides, Slang was obviously in his own world as he spoke; he didn't seem to realize that Smokescreen was still there, and maybe that was for the best, considering the information that he was sharing. The information may not have been necessarily relevant to the mission, but it could help him get closer to Slang.

And it was actually really comforting to know that others had felt the same way as him, and still did.

"But he started bringing home these dates to meet me, and he would be so excited, thinking that this was the one. They were always weird around me. Some of them were sickly sweet, treating me like I was a sparkling and talking down to me, and others kind of pretended that I wasn't there at all, because really, who wants to know about their date's illegit creation, you know?"

Illegit? Slang was an illegitimate creation? That was surprising, unexpected, and definitely a slip-up. Slang frowned a bit after what he'd said, looking to Smokescreen to see his reaction. The Autobot wasn't sure what expression was on his faceplates and portrayed by his posture, but it must have been relieving to the purple mech, because the tension drained from his frame and he continued talking as if nothing had happened.

"The relationships, they never lasted. Sometimes they were done with by the next orn, sometimes they stuck around for a while – I remember a particularly ghastly and vapid femme named Nightdancer lasting the longest, if I recall. I hated her so much; she was one of those that seemed to be under the impression that I was a toddler and couldn't understand what the grown-ups were saying. So fragging condescending. She made me wanna purge.

"My dad would bring these strangers home and when they left he would ask for my truthful opinion on them. When I would tell him what I honestly thought, he would get upset with me, 'cause my opinion was never what he wanted to hear. Things continued like that for a while, and we relapsed with our no-communication stalemate. Then it was coming time for me to graduate, and my creator wanted me to go off to one of the higher academies and get certification by one of them so I could go into a bigger, better-paid field of work. None of them had anything that I cared for, though. I never gave a slag about science and looking at someone's insides made me queasy, and I most certainly wasn't cut out for the War Academy. I'm just not into all of that, the tactics or the fighting. That was one of the reasons why I left Iacon."

Iacon, hmm? He wondered if Slang honestly didn't realize all of the information he was dropping, or if this was all a ruse.

"When I told my creator that I didn't care about those academies or any of the others, he got really angry. Said he hadn't been taking care of me for my entire life just so I could throw it all away. I got pissed, told him that he hadn't been doing much caring for a long time. Then he got quiet and just looked at me for a while. Said that if I didn't choose a school to go to within the orn I could just leave and never come back. I wasn't planning on changing my mind, and neither was he, so I left that orn. Packed my things and left while he was at work. Never saw him again.

"I know that on some level he wanted a better life for me than what he'd had. But sometimes I swear he'd look at me like he couldn't believe I was there at all, like there was something wrong with me. I don't know if it was something to do with my sire or simply because my being there was ruining his life – it is a drag to have to look after a sparkling while you're young and single – but even if I'd done what he wanted, our fight was still inevitable. It just happened to be the school thing that set it off. We still would have had that falling out eventually, and at least it happened before he wasted anymore of his credits on me."

Slang fell silent for a long time, staring at a poster advertising for a Vosian air-show a few thousand vorns old.

"Occasionally I look him up, see what he's been doing. He's got new creations now, sparklings practically. I've seen footage of them. He loves those little ones to pieces. The way he looks at them...he never looked at me like that. Like he was made whole just by having me in his life. Like he would never leave me."

The last line was but a mere whisper spoken through trembling lip components. Slang swiped at his ruby optics before any trace of tears could appear, and barked out a hoarse laugh.

"Look at me, getting all upset over something that happened so long ago. He got over me; I should get over him, too, right? But I can't. I just...I can't. I mean, he's my dad. A mech's not supposed to forget his creators. Apparently that doesn't matter in the reverse, though.

"My dad – my creator, he seems happy with his new life, his new creations. I just gotta be happy that he's happy, right? So I try not to dwell on it and just focus on my life here."

The pirate rolled over so he was once again lying on his stomach and stared at Smokescreen with the most serious of gazes.

"I'm not stupid, Smokescreen. I have a reason to be spewing my personal info to a mech I've just met. I know you know that Star is usually in here with me, and I asked him to stay with Tam so I could give you my sob story and get my point across. My creator, he doesn't care about me anymore, and my sire doesn't even know that I exist. For all intents and purposes, my actual family no longer cares about me and doesn't want me. So this here, Vanos, is the best thing that ever happened to me. These mechs, they're my family now, and I look after my family. That means that you need to watch yourself, mech, 'cause I don't tolerate anything against my family. You remember that and we'll be the best of pals."

Smokescreen nodded numbly. That answered a lot of his questions, and piled yet another layer onto his guilt. He felt like he needed to contribute to this, to give something back to the mech who had just shared so much of his painful past with him, even if he was trying to threaten him.

"I..." he trailed off, unsure. "My creators – they stuck around, and they stayed together, but they never cared for me at all. I was...I was just what society expected. You bond, you then have a sparkling. They wouldn't have had me if it weren't for the fact that they didn't want to look bad in front of their peers, be called infertile or something like that. I was just the proof that they could have a sparkling and fit the norm they loved so much."

Slang's optics softened from their serious glint to a more concerned, sympathetic gaze. "What happened to them? Before Praxus, I mean." Yes, Smokescreen knew what he meant.

"I didn't like how they ignored me, but was afraid to say it. Things were getting worse and I just kept trying to appease them – it wasn't working at all. In the end-" He broke off, unable to share that dark part of himself.

_Primus, you sparkling, it's not like anything _happened_, _a part of him said. _It was just a fight. You've been in a bunch of those – what makes this one so bad?_

What made it so bad? He'd always known that he didn't meet hit creators' expectations, but to hear it for himself, that was just too much. And his downward spiral into gambling...he didn't know if he could ever share that part of himself with anybody.

Wow, wasn't he psychologist of the year?

Slang smiled easily, softly. "It's okay, I get it. You're not ready to share it yet; that's fine. Took me a long time to come to terms with my own messed up life, and that was after I'd ignored it all for vorns. You don't have to talk till you want to, and when you're ready, well, I'm always a ready listener. Gotta be when you talk as much as me!"

The pirate laughed, and Smokescreen did too, surprised to find that his amusement at the other's humor was genuine. True, his life had been bad, and what he was doing here would leave more than one mech upset in the end, but for the first time in a long time, Smokescreen didn't feel like an outcast. Even in the Autobots he felt like there was a wall separating him from the rest of them, that barricade of "unwanted" that surrounded him setting him apart, alienating him.

But here, on Vanos, everyone had a strange and often sordid past and nobody was judged for it. Smokescreen could see the appeal of it. Steal some things, make some credits, gain a family. If he hadn't cleaned up his act and joined the Autobots, he probably would have ended up here. Primus, right now he wished he could be a true member of this place, this family.

And that was dangerous. He couldn't keep thinking thoughts like this, these mutinous thoughts. If he kept this up he was going to get himself slagged over in more ways than one. Then the Vanoans would hate him and the Autobots would hate him and he would be all alone...

No, he couldn't think like that, couldn't live like that. He had to live in the here and now if he could ever hope to make it through this mission in one piece.

Even if his spark was being torn to pieces as he went.

* * *

Megatron looked over his soldiers in deep thought. He had gathered them all so he could decide just who he wanted to send on this mission. For some reason, he thought that staring at them might make the process a bit easier. In reality it was only making the Decepticons more nervous.

The city of Vanos was a new territory for the Decepticons, one that the great Slag-maker was planning to call his own, just as soon as his agent gained the trust and support of those pathetic, yet admittedly cunning natives. The only problem was, he needed to choose that agent before any of his other plans for the area could come to fruition.

He glanced over his ranks. Who to choose, who to choose...? The seekers were out, because he didn't trust Starscream as far as he could throw him, and considering that Skywarp and Thundercracker were the traitor's trine, he could never quite be sure where their true loyalty lied. For all he knew, if he sent one of those two in they would report on the situation to Starscream before him, or would hide information.

The Coneheads were out for similar reasons. Though they weren't always on good terms with Starscream, they did follow the tri-colored seeker as well as his trine. Besides, it wouldn't do to split up a trine. Primus knew, they might get _lonely_ – a stupid Autobot sentiment.

The gestalts were out for the same reasons as their trines – the slagging bonds couldn't be worked around. Soundwave's cassettes couldn't be sent for multiple reasons. Not only were they too conspicuous, but Soundwave would never let them go without him, and Megatron most certainly wouldn't send off his loyal TIC.

Who was left? There were the triple-changers, but they were not only conspicuous, but also a little too ornery to make nice with the natives. Reflector was out – was there anything that thing _could_ do?

That really just left Blackout and Barricade as the only two Decepticons Megatron felt he could trust to do _something_ right. Which to send? Blackout was more introverted, which could work negatively for them when it came to him getting in good with the Vanoans. While Barricade was easier to approach, he was also very brash and possibly offensive if one wasn't used to his painfully honest and snarky personality.

So if the Vanoans were prissy little pseudo-Autobots that needed to be coddled, then Blackout's somewhat calmer personality would fit them when it came to..._befriending _them. Just the thought of it made his lip components curl into a sneer of disgust. Who needed "friendship" when you could have power?

He looked out once again at his assembled crew. "Blackout, come forward. The rest of you, get out of my sight!" The Decepticons were quick to do as Megatron commanded, which was just the way he liked it. Total control – did it get better than this? Well, actually yes: better meant ruling Cybertron with an iron fist and crushing those puny Autobrats into space dust under his pede while making his dear _brother_ watch.

Blackout came forward while the rest of the 'Cons left the room, some grumbling to themselves about how pointless it had been to stand around while their leader stared at them. Megatron would have reprimanded them in his _favorite _way, but he had business to attend to at the moment. Maybe later, if he had time and remembered the perpetrators, he could deal with them _properly_, and if he forgot who had spoken out, well, Starscream was always available for a good flogging.

"Yes, Lord Megatron?" the sometimes-medic asked in a reserved tone. Megatron sneered at him, simply because he wanted to, and then spoke.

"I am sending you on a new mission, and I expect complete success. You will be deployed to the city of Vanos and gain the trust of the natives. I want them allied to the Decepticons as soon as possible. Soundwave will brief you on the details."

Blackout appeared taken aback, but nodded anyway. What more could he do? This _was_ Megatron, after all. "Yes, my lord."

Little did anyone know, but a Decepticon hadn't left as asked. He waited outside the entrance, listening in on the occurrences. The Decepticons wanted to ally with Vanos? This would not do, oh, this most _definitely_ would not do. He might have bought into the Decepticon propaganda once upon a time, but there was no way in the Pit his innocent – well, almost innocent – city was getting involved in this war.

He would die before he allowed it.

* * *

Blaster sat at his console in the Control Room of the _Ark_, idly wondering how long it would take for Smokescreen to call in. From what he'd been told, he could call anytime from now to a few orns from now. Not very helpful when someone would always have to be on call, waiting to grab Jazz and Prime as soon as the call was received.

He glanced down at Steeljaw curled up in his lap. The metal feline purred as he ran a single digit over his creation's spinal struts. At his pedes lay Ramhorn, snoozing idly, and Eject was laying against him. Rewind was sitting on the edge of the console in front of him, swinging his legs back and forth even as recharge dragged at his optic shutters.

"You should go to recharge, little mech," he said in a soft voice, careful not to wake his other cassettes.

"'M not sleepy," the sparkling replied through a large yawn. Blaster fought the flashback that tried to arise, and just barely suppressed it.

"Sure you're not," he chuckled. Rewind narrowed his optics at him while he yawned again.

This time the memory would not be silent.

"_Slang, it's time for recharge, little mech."_

"'_M not sleepy," whined the sparkling. A yawn broke his pout, showing off a tiny glossa and set of developing denta._

"_Sure you're not."_

A claw of pain ripped through his spark. The remembered moment was a mirror image with the present. Was he replacing the past with his cassettes? Was he replacing-?

He couldn't even think the name, or he knew his optics would start to fill with cleaning fluid, and he couldn't have that with his cassettes present.

Once, just once, he wished he could see his sparkling again. Not a sparkling now but a young mech. What did he look like? He had gotten Blaster's slightly smaller build, but his features – those were all from his sire. Did he still look like that? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Was he alone and scared? Did he miss him? Did he even _think_ about him? Was he an Autobot, or – _Primus forbid_ – a Decepticon? Was he still alive at all?

He stopped himself there. He knew that his sparkling was still online, and that was all he knew about him. Blaster was always searching the Autobots' files and some of the Decepticons' searching for his creation, but had heard nothing of him. He greatly regretted his fight with his sparklet and would do anything to get him back.

But he couldn't. His sparkling was grown now and didn't want to see him anymore, not after he'd run him off. He had his cassettes to look after now.

They could never fill that hole in his spark, though, that hole left by his firstborn.

That hole left by his little Slang.

* * *

**I don't know if I should have put that part with Blaster in at the end. I wanted to, but I'm not very happy with it. What about you?**

**I'm quite happy with the whole Decepticon storyline. I have at least seven subplots to this story, and that's the introduction of one or two of them.**

**Anyways, please review!**


	5. What Has Been

**Before you complain about my lateness, I do have an excuse – for the last month I've been sharing this computer with five people, meaning that all of my time is devoted to homework. That has sort of been fixed, so hopefully updates won't be as far-between. But look, long chapter! That counts for something, right?**

**I've felt like crap this last month. Sore throats, coughing, five days of pink-eye – yep, I've been livingf the high-life, people. So don't think I was off enjoying myself without you!**

**But I did get a new foster dog yesterday. His name is Buddy Boy, and he's sweet and adorable and is so long and short that he looks like a golden retriever with his legs chopped off. XD**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any of its characters, but I do own all OCs used here, as well as Vanos, the Game, and the situations shown here.**

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_Excerpt from the archives of the _Defiance_, File Name: Backgrounds._

_I've said it before and I'll say it again – pirates come from anywhere, can be anyone. Well, not anyone, 'cause not just anyone can be a pirate. This is hard work! But really, piracy has something for everyone – as long as that "everyone" has a distinct lack of morals – and as a field with all types of people, there are bound to be all types of backgrounds._

_Most are Vanoan, like 'Jack, Aery, and Star, and they all tend to be of similar situations. Then you get ones from the streets like the twins, and runaways like me. Runaways always have different stories, but the outcomes are always the same. Heh, doesn't make us so special, now does it?_

_And then there are those oddballs like Tam, those mechs that, against all odds, are somehow sent into our little pirate family in methods that can only be those of Primus. But no matter how someone joins, they can still be a pirate. It doesn't matter how things start – if they end by genuinely wanting to be here, with us, then that's how things will be. Simple as that, really._

_File Archived by: Slang, the most unbiased mech you'll ever find._

"C'mon Smokey, get the lead outta your pedes!"

"Yeah mech, do you know how unhealthy that is? Lead in your pedes is just not good for you."

Smokescreen vented loudly as he continued at the same pace he had been moving at previously. It wasn't like he was lagging behind the group; in fact, the only ones ahead of him were Lonestar and Slang, who kept walking backwards while bouncing around excitedly and calling out to him to join them at the front. Apparently the pair had decided to adopt Smokescreen as an unwilling member of their clique of Overly-Excitable Mechs, current population: 2.

After the last night's get-to-know-you talk with Slang, Smokescreen had been surprised to find that the purple mech was now treating him just as Lonestar was – like an old, long-missing and well-missed friend, and thus way too kind for the new mech. He already felt bad enough; he didn't need these two unknowingly piling on the guilt!

One thing pressing on the doorwinger's CPU was that he needed to call into the _Ark_ soon. It seemed that the pirates were insisting on keeping him close, presumably to prevent him from doing just that, should he turn out to be a spy. He'd had no chance to call in since he had met Lonestar, and if things kept up, he wouldn't be getting one soon. All he could hope was that Prime and Jazz gave him more time to get into things before they came running in to save him.

A servo grabbed onto Smokescreen's, pulling him forward abruptly. Lonestar stood directly in front of him, walking backwards, with a huge beatific grin on his faceplates. "C'mon," he whined lightly, tugging gently on the mech's servo. "You're up here with the cool mechs."

He pulled firmly until Smokescreen finally assented to letting the other mech drag him forward until he was walking in between Lonestar and Slang, both of whom threw their arms around his shoulder struts. It was an amusing image, considering that Smokescreen was taller than both of the pirates, and both Smokescreen's doorwings and Lonestar's rotors made things a tight fit.

The Datsun had to keep from wincing at the growl that floated from behind the group. Aero made it no secret that he despised the mech and didn't trust him at all. He was quite loud and showy about it, which tempted Smokescreen to tell him that he was being a little petty considering he was supposed to be the professional one of the crew. The rest of them had been much more accepting of his presence, despite knowing him for less than a whole orn and having no true reason to give him the time, let alone consider allowing him onto their crew.

The twins had been quiet, but Lonestar assured him that they often kept to themselves and just took a while to remember that their were others on Cybertron other than themselves who _couldn't_ hear their constant bond-dialogue, and needed to be let "in the know" on occasion. Timbre was silent and seemed terrified of Smokescreen every time the doorwinger so much as looked at him, but tried to offer up his own small, shy smiles for him, if the slight nervous twitching of his lip components counted for anything. Lonestar had been accepting from the start, his jovial and loyal instant-friend, and after the last night Slang had joined him in that aspect.

And Blackjack...Smokescreen couldn't figure that mech out. It wasn't like he was an enigma – oh no, the pirate captain wore his emotions on his chassis for all to see, with his expressive, turbo-puppy faceplates and optics and his bouncy emotions. But for the life of him, Smokescreen couldn't determine how a mech like this, so, so simply _cheerful_ and _innocent_ like this could be a fragging pirate captain!

It had occurred to him that maybe Blackjack, like Jazz, was just naturally happy yet not as innocent as that happiness implied, but as a psychologist he liked to think that he had some sort skill when it came to reading a mech, and his abilities only revealed to him that this mech was truly, genuinely that blissful in everything he did. It was like someone had made the perfect cross of Jazz and Bluestreak, and wasn't that an interesting thought. He was everybody's best friend, abnormally joyful and constantly perky, a smile never far from his faceplates. He trusted seemingly freely and assumed the best of people, the thought never appearing to occur to him that someone could be a less-than-model person.

Smokescreen couldn't understand him. How could he not, given this war, given the state of Vanos in relation to the rest of Cybertron, given that he was a _pirate captain_, be somewhat cautious in who he allowed in his inner-circle? It just wasn't a logical practice! A Decepticon could show up at any moment and say that they were a neutral, and Blackjack would probably welcome them with open arms. Smokescreen tried to ignore the fact that he was doing the exact same thing as his imagined-Decepticon, but still, he couldn't tell if he should be contemptuous towards the captain for being so naive, or want to protect him and his rare kindness.

"Having fun in there?" A single digit reached out and prodded the side of Smokescreen's helm, just as a smiling faceplate was placed directly next to his own, not only breaching his personal space but completely destroying it.

"I was," he replied lightly, pushing away Slang's intruding servo.

"And of course it's better with me around, right?"

"Of course."

For the life of him the Autobot couldn't understand how this sense of camaraderie had come across him. He didn't even joke around with the other Autobots unless he was trash-talking them during one of his many card games that often appeared when Jazz threw a party and the high-grade started to flow. Yet here he was, teasing a mech who he just met, who had just been threatening him the night before.

A chirp sounded next to Smokescreen's left audio and he jumped, surprised to find the warm weight of Scorponok settling on the back of his neck, apparently after the symbiote had transferred himself from Lonestar's back to Smokescreen's own. Multiple thin metal limbs scuttled upwards, pulling the small creature higher on the Datsun until he was perched with a set of back legs on the back of Smokescreen's neck cables with his front half propped against the back of Smokescreen's helm, his multiple optics peering over the top of the Datsun's helm while he wrapped his barbed tail around the mech's neck cables for support.

"Hello to you too." His grumbling tone was belied by the tiny affectionate smile on his faceplates. Who could _not_ like Scorponok? The symbiote was just too cute!

Scorponok chirped loudly and nuzzled his chin against the Datsun's helm.

"Aw, Scorpy's got a friend!" cheered a voice from behind Smokescreen. The undercover-Autobot, and thus Scorponok as well, turned to see Blackjack walking behind them with a cheery expression and a blindingly bright smile. One of his servos rested loosely on his hip while the other was attached to Aero's forearm, pulling along the silently protesting triple-changer, whose lip components were pouting and optics were shining with a teasing sort of glee that Smokescreen hadn't thought him capable of.

For some reason the entire sight made Smokescreen's spark wither and curl in on itself in a corner of his spark chamber, as if it could somehow hide from the image that for some reason upset it. But Smokescreen couldn't decipher why these two being together would bother him. Sure, their personalities were totally different, but Lonestar had said that they had known each other since sparklinghood, and that Blackjack had lived with Aero's family after his brother had left for Iacon. Really, it wasn't that hard to imagine that feelings would grow between the pair.

And yet Smokescreen couldn't avoid the feeling of hurt jealousy curling through his spark; whom he was jealous of, he wasn't at all sure, but he didn't like the answer either way. This was a mission, and he had no place getting attached to anybody on a mission, especially not blatant criminals.

That rationalization didn't make him feel any better, though.

Realizing that he had yet to respond to Blackjack's statement, he threw a small, weary smile on his face for the captain before turning back to the road ahead of him. He didn't notice the captain's bemused and concerned frown aimed at the back of his helm. Scorponok, on the other servo, chirred consolingly at him from his perch on Smokescreen's helm before facing forward once more.

Blackjack glanced at the twins looking for any sort of explanation to the look he had just received, but the two were, per usual, off in their own bond-induced world where they hadn't a clue what was going on around them. The captain suspected that it was a defense mechanism the duo had developed at an early age to ignore their horrific lives on the streets, and he had done his best to ease them into normal interaction with the outside world.

Rehabilitating the twins to a level of normal social interaction was just one of many duties left to him by his mentor, and it was one that he wouldn't fail in, not only due to his loyalty to his mentor but to the twins and all of his crew. He would do his best to do right by all of them, no matter the cost.

He was a mech described often as being too kind for his own good. Some thought he had a desperate need to please that would eventually be his downfall, and others believed that he should be pitied for his naivety that made him oh-so-easy to trick. Blackjack knew what everyone said about him, and he could concede that they were probably a little bit right on all counts, but he didn't pay their words much heed. Dwelling on the thoughts of others just wasn't who he was. Blackjack thrived in the heat of the moment, the here and now, and he lived life to the fullest.

Yet, more than anything, Blackjack was a family mech. He liked to look after others and keep them happy, and he loved having someone look up to him, turn to him for guidance. The idea of someone looking to him the way he had to his mentor was everything he had ever wanted. Yes, it may have been unhealthy to dream of taking care of others and to have that strange unbreakable _need _to be needed, but it was what Blackjack wanted, and when he wanted something, he had an odd way of always getting his wish, no matter what. He would take care of his family and live that happily-ever-after life he had read about in story-pads as a sparkling.

He just, er, didn't have a family to play the creepily overbearing and doting creator of his dreams to. But he was working on it. Look at his crew! That was the start of an awesome family right there. One where he was always wanted and his family wouldn't just run out on him, never to return...

Blackjack thought he was doing a pretty good job on the "creating a family" front. Aero and Lonestar had stood by him all of these years, his strong and loyal lieutenants since sparklinghood. Aero was the planner, the schemer, the logical one who created the plots. Lonestar was the face of the act, the people-pleaser, the one who could smooth-talk his way out of any situation just as well as he could get himself wrapped up in one. And Blackjack, he was the head of it all, the one who oversaw every aspect of their operations and ensured that things ran smoothly, all the while looking after everyone involved as he was so wont to do.

For vorns that had been their lives, the three of them working flawlessly as one fluid machine. They had started off simply performing odd jobs around the city, and as soon as they could travel on their own they were going to bordering areas to try their servos at simple schemes, petty theft and such. Lonestar had considered conning, but thought it unethical in the way that only a Vanoan could. Aero was content to leave their criminal dabbling as a simple extracurricular activity, taking second place to his studies, and Lonestar simply did it for fun.

Blackjack saw it not just as tactical training or an outlet for extra energy. He saw a future career, a way of life, one where he could properly build up the means to provide for the mismatched family that having a crew could create for him. He could fulfill all of his dreams with one occupation.

When he'd heard word that Steelgauge was recruiting, he just about offlined from sheer excitement. His two best friends hadn't been too pleased with his leaving, but they supported him as they always had, his faithful backup. He couldn't get his older brother's input, because he couldn't be contacted, as to keep from blowing his cover at the Science Academy, a place that condemned Vanoans, but Blackjack hoped that he could at least make his brother proud.

So Blackjack had joined the crew of the _Madness_ and worked tirelessly to achieve his goals, eventually making his way to being the captain's personal protégé, much to the jealousy of others. The captain shuddered at the memory of the scorn and hatred he had received, simply for doing his best and having his hard work recognized by a like-minded mech.

Steelgauge had a personality that was surprisingly similar to Blackjack's. Both were self-confident and of cheerful dispositions, and both would do whatever it took to achieve their goals. Steelgauge too, Blackjack soon discovered, was highly family oriented. But where Blackjack saw his crew as his family, Steelgauge spread that net to all of Vanos. He saw it as his duty to look out for the denizens of Vanos who had been damned by the rest of Cybertron. If nobody would look after them, he would. He would do anything for family.

Blackjack never knew that this little fact that was so well-known to him could have been a huge clue in determining just why Steelgauge, his beloved mentor and creator-figure, suddenly disbanded the crew that had made him feel whole. He was hurt, shocked, and confused when the mech had turned those unusually unreadable optics on him and told him that the _Madness_ would be no more, that his orns of piracy had ended. The poor young mech, in his quest for approval, could only assume that he was somehow to blame, and Steelgauge, dealing with his own inner-emotional-turmoil, had not been as astute and observant as he usually was, and hadn't noticed the guilty appearance of his charge, a perhaps fateful mistake that left Blackjack with a haunted feeling.

The captain of the _Madness_ had refused to tell anyone why he suddenly wanted to give up piracy, the only life he had ever led. He didn't speak a word of it to his adoptive creators, who had adopted him as a sparkling and were the only creators he had ever known. He didn't say anything to Aero, who had been adopted by his creators after he had started his own crew and was, for all intents and purposes, technically his younger brother, though he didn't know the youngling as well as he would have liked to. In fact, he only said one thing, and that was to Blackjack.

"I need to go now," he'd told the crying youngling, placing his servos on the shaking shoulder-struts of the blue and yellow young mech. "I can't say why, but you'd understand if I could. You'd probably be the only one." He'd turned his optics away so Blackjack couldn't see the grim, far-away look in them.

"'Jack, you need to listen to me. Are you listening?" A nod. "Good. I have to go, and that means that I won't be around to look after Vanos anymore. They're going to need someone to protect them, someone to keep the Council from finishing what they started."

Morose optics stared up at him, streaming cleaning fluid. "W-what can I do?" he asked hopelessly.

A ruefully amused look was sent his way. "Well first, you can start by being that same cocky, overly-confident young mech that I've been toting around for the past few vorns. This is no place for second-guessing. Got it?"

Another nod. Steelgauge paused, considering the sizeable weight he was laying on the youngling's – almost an adult, really – shoulders. Deeming him capable, he nodded and continued.

"I need you to look after Vanos for me. They need a protector without me here, and I want that protector to be you."

"How could I do that? I'm just one mech!"

Now Steelgauge smiled softly, sad and grimacing with a side of fondness for his favorite youngling. "Ah, but no pirate is ever alone when they have their crew to rely on."

Blackjack's sobs slowly ceased as he mulled this over. "Crew? You mean, my own crew? Like, I should be a captain?"

"No, I want you to work as a desk clerk. Yes, a captain!"

The youngling shook his helm quickly, doubt soon setting in. He couldn't do this! There was no way he could do this! "But why me? I mean, there's all of your command staff, a-and other crews..."

"Yeah, but none of them have the spark for it. Some are just greedy, or they can't think much past their immediate relations and friends. You? I think you could take the task of protecting Vanos in stride, as long as you had a reliable crew at your back. You'd be unstoppable."

The idea floated into Blackjack's helm and quickly settled, rooting itself deeply in his processors. Yes, he could make his own crew, his own family, and he could take care of Vanos. Just the thought of it, a whole city to look after, made his optics brighten.

Steelgauge had left soon after, never to be seen or heard from again. He had taken the _Madness_ with him, leaving Blackjack to return to his brother's old shop with nothing but his newfound duty and dreams to keep him afloat. Upon joining the _Madness_ he had left it in the tender loving care of his two best friends. Aero took care of the shop's fiscal matters while Lonestar did the actual work. He easily fell back into place there in their old routine, looking out for the other two as he helped out around the shop.

But soon he found that dreaming of his goals coming to fruition wasn't enough. He couldn't wait any longer with his dreams on hold. One orn he gathered up his courage and that self-confidence that Steelgauge had always praised him for – and warned him on – and told them of his wishes.

They weren't very receptive – at first.

Aero, logical to the end, immediately started citing all of the reasons why Blackjack starting his own ship would be a bad idea. He had no reputation, he had no credits that weren't being immediately put back into the shop, he had no connections, he had never done this before on his own, he had no crew – the list went on and on. Blackjack had actually started to lose his always present, forever confident smile when Lonestar said three words that confirmed his fraternal love for one of his best friends.

"Yes he does."

"What?" Aero had asked carefully with a risen optical ridge. He hadn't liked any of the proposed ideas at all. Routine normalcy was one of his favorite things. He could predict circumstances and their outcomes and could prepare accordingly. But a new career path, new situations – he couldn't be sure of what would happen, and that wasn't something he liked _at all_.

Lonestar, on the other servo, hated monotony. He loved when something unexpected happened; he thrived in chaos and the unexpected. Being a pirate – well, he had never put much thought into it, even though he was from Vanos, but the idea certainly appealed to him. He could roll with this.

"We're his crew!" he had exclaimed. "You and me, Aery, we'll be 'Jack's crew. Primus, this is gonna be so cool! We're gonna be epic!"

Aero had immediately disputed this, throwing up his servos in a desperate attempt to talk some sense into his friends, but they were far too gone in their own ideas, putting together their plans for the "best slagging pirate crew the planet's ever seen!"

Much to his unhappiness, Aero was dragged along with their ideas. Grudgingly he decided to help in their search for a suitable ship, just because he couldn't stand the idea of them paying too much or getting an improper ship. Aero could never stay out of a plan for long.

When the trio couldn't find a ship of acceptable caliber, Aero had done something highly unexpected: he excavated his savings from all of his frugal efforts over the vorns and presented them to his best friends. His friends were beside themselves with gratitude when he finally showed a first supportive effort towards their goal.

With Aero's savings added to their own, the three were able to contract a good local shipbuilder to set to work on their own ship, one to be owned by all three of them. Blackjack would be the captain, of course, and Lonestar had dived on the idea of being a pilot, tracking down the retired pilot of the _Madness_ and forcing him, without much real force given the willing pilot, to teach him how to do the same.

Aero, per usual, was along for the ride, and as much as he bemoaned it, he wouldn't have it any other way. Someone had to look out for the two idiots. Blackjack may have been the creator-figure, but Aero was the silent protector who ensured that nothing would harm his upbeat, often naive friends.

Almost immediately the three set out to gather their crew. They traveled towards Kaon with an intention to make a stop in Tarn on the way. Both places were well-known hotspots for potential pirates, and seemed promising. After a close run-in with the Enforcers while passing around Iacon airspace, which they had been trying to give a large amount of space to, they had been forced to land in a small suburb of the great city.

Never had they expected that they would be letting an Iaconian onto their crew.

Slang had been wandering around the slums looking for work when he spotted a fragging huge airship. At first he thought it must have belonged to the Council's army, but this wasn't at all like the formal, clean-cut ships created purely for work. No, this was a formidable ship if the guns meant anything, but it looked too _inviting_ in the runaway's optics to belong to the Council. And when a homeless runaway found something inviting, they tended to sneak onto it.

The trio had awoken to the unexpected sight of a purple mech messing around with the ship's communications systems. Aero had immediately drawn a weapon and prepared to blow the mech's helm off of his shoulders, and only Lonestar's swiftness had saved the mech, who had nervously told them that he was just looking for a place to stay and had recognized the equipment they were using.

"My...my dad, he...he worked with stuff like this. He showed me how to use it in his off-time."

Blackjack had held up a servo to restrain Aero and his sharp glossa. "You know communications?"

The younger mech had grasped this opportunity quickly. He nodded a lot, saying, "Yeah, yeah, I do. I mean, if you need help, like, a permanent role or something, well, I kinda need a place to stay, and I could take care of this stuff for you."

"Oh you could?" Aero raised an optical ridge in darkly amused doubt.

"Yes," replied the purple mech with just as much edge in his tone, raising his own optical ridge and crossing his arms. Little did he know, but Aero in fact hadn't been mocking him. In his own little way, he was testing the mech, who passed with flying colors.

"Good. We need some help." The mech had smiled so joyously that Aero almost – _almost_ – smiled in return. He allowed the mech to introduce himself and spent some time listening to his sleepy friends delightedly converse with this new mech, Slang, about how wonderful things would be, before he pulled the mech aside.

"Listen up. This is a trial, got it? Don't mess up, because I don't forgive, and I can easily toss you out that door, m'kay?" This had, of course, been said before Aero had been around the block a few times with untrustworthy pirates and still contained a shred of trust for newcomers deep in his spark – a shred of trust that had been long torn apart and buried by the time Smokescreen had come along.

But at the time Aero had been willing to try out Slang as a new crewmate, and in him he had found a mech equally fiercely protective of this strange, fragile new family that they were creating.

The twins were a promise Blackjack had made to Steelgauge before the elder's departure.

"There are these twins out in Tarn, you follow? If you're looking for a couple of B and E guys for your crew, they're the pair I'd recommend."

"Who are they? I mean I know there aren't a lot of twins in Tarn, or on the planet, for that matter, but I can't find them if I don't know anything else about them..."

"Go to the slums, out near that old house we used for the Game a couple of times. Remember that one, the one with the turbo-rats living in the upstairs, so when the rough started caving they started falling through?" His charge nodded and giggled quietly. Steelgauge was just happy to see that smile that he loved so much back on his favorite youngling's faceplates, no matter how muted it was.

"They like recharging around there. Flash and Bolt – those are their names. They're green and blue and blue and green, and they're kinda shy, but if you show 'em your crew-mark from the _Madness_ they'll come with you – they've got matching ones on their forearms, that's how you can identify them. Speaking of, you're gonna need to come up with your own mark soon. Gotta make a name for yourself, and a fresh mark is the best for that."

Blackjack had just stared at his pedes, but his soft grin remained for the moment, the impending departure of the one mech he could look up to anymore temporarily forgotten. This made the captain's faceplates spawn a grin of their own, and he affectionately rubbed the top of the youngling's helm.

"You'll be okay, kid. You'll be okay."

Flash and Bolt had been located, just as Steelgauge had said, and with steady encouragement they agreed to join the budding pirate crew. The two stuck to themselves for vorns with Flash speaking for them, and even then only when pressed to, before they started to settle in with the group.

It was around this time that a name was needed for the new ship. Most ships were christened with a name upon their creation, but the trio had yet to get around to it, and they hadn't wanted to let the shipbuilder do the honors, considering he had a nasty habit of naming ships after the main characters of famous tragedies, and for some reason that didn't sound like a good omen to them as a beginning pirate crew.

It had been Bolt, surprisingly enough, who came up with it. He was never one who was much for speaking but he had said in one of his miniscule statements that "Council hates pirates 'cause they defy 'em – _Defiance_."

And that had been that. Bolt's idea beat any of the others', and to them it personified them perfectly. Plus they were too lazy to think of any other suggestions, but that was beside the point.

Timbre had been the last, and his addition the most surprising. It wasn't too tough to see a pair of orphans or a runaway as members of a pirate crew, but a Towers mech? Well, nobody expected that one.

The crew had met Timbre while literally in the process of nabbing a specifically..._requested_ object for a _client_. It was only by some obscure twist of fate that they met the large, shy mech.

Flashbolt had snuck into the Towers while a large party, hailed to be the greatest of the vorn, was in session. Knowing that they looked the part of street filth after living it for so long, they couldn't claim to be any part of society. Instead, they took the easy explanation out of why they weren't on the list: they were the servants of some of the royalty and it was their duty to attend to their masters for the duration of the party. Primus forbid those Towers mechs had to go pick up their own high grade from the refreshments table _all by themselves_.

To their delight (and the stupidity of the security at the door) the pair had been easily permitted without anyone bothering to check if they were actually with the large family of Towers mechs that they claimed to be accompanying. Oh well, better for Flashbolt.

The duo made their way through the mansion, trying to keep their optics properly averted from their "superiors" while they took in the splendor they had never before experienced. Sure, their quarters and accommodations were considered wonderful after what they'd grown up in, but this place was just beyond their wildest imaginations.

Everything glittered like it was newly polished – and it probably was. There were Quintesson-era decorations and carvings on the colorful walls, and the floors were some rare translucent organic material that was so unusual and beautiful that the pair felt bad for even placing their pedes on it, which was probably the owners' hope and intention.

Large windows along the upstairs corridor the two were traversing allowed the numerous stars and planetary masses surrounding Cybertron to shine their light on the occupants of the lavish building, bathing the mechs in an ethereal glow only created by this certain, expensive windows at an exact angle. It was the kind of thing that the twins had never experienced before, and probably never would again, but for a long moment they simply stared in awe and wonder. They couldn't believe that the Towers mechs got to see this every orn. They obviously didn't realize how lucky they were.

Shaking themselves from their stupor only when Slang com'ed them on his private, heavily guarded line asking about their progress, the duo continued down the deserted hallway. All occupants of the building seemed to be on the first floor, dancing or making conversation in and around the ballroom if they were guests and racing madly to fulfill their masters' requests if they were hired help. Not an optic ridge had been raised at the twins during their entire stay, and everyone was too busy in their own worlds and tasks to notice the pair sneak up a glorious two-sided grand staircase that they couldn't resist running their servos over the ornately decorated banisters of.

The entire upper floor was empty, and that was just how the pair of thieves liked it. This made their job all that much easier. The pair lacked good social and acting skills, yet the security had been too oblivious to notice that they weren't nervous because they were intimidated, and it seemed that no mech or femme present would soon realize their intrusion. Really, the whole thing was just too easy.

Flashbolt continued on in search of the library. This particular library was renowned for its extensive contents in all kinds of media, modern and ancient. Some said it contained more than even the famous Praxus libraries, but considering those that had spread the rumor were the owners of the library themselves, not too many believed it. But it could not be denied that the library was full of wonderful amounts of knowledge...rare, expensive knowledge.

They found the room surprisingly easily. Then again, the large ornately decorated double doors weren't very conspicuous.

The pair did their best to _carefully_ open the doors. That failed miserably when the groaned loudly, the stress of their sheer size weighing on them. But the pair knew that the librarian had been given the night off due to the festivities. That meant that when they snuck into the room, doing their best to shut the door behind themselves, the pair was quite surprised to find that there were lights turned on in the room. The room was completely silent and magnificently lit by lights as strong as the _Defiance_'s floodlights, which was saying something.

Flash sent a look at Bolt, who shrugged before creeping off towards a shelf. They were looking for a datapad, some sort of tome that was purportedly pre-Quintesson, an idea impossible to a pair of mechs who had no formal education aside from what Aero had tried to force down their throats whose only knowledge of ancient history was when the Cybertronians revolted against the Quintessons. Something before then...? Well, they just didn't believe in it.

Bolt placed a servo on a shelf, trying to decipher how the datapads were organized, as he would never have a chance of finding it just by searching by servo. A soft, shuddering heave caused his helm to snap to his side, optics narrowed in suspicion.

_Bro, we ain't alone_, he told his twin. Flash sent an affirmative response and took cautious steps forward, spark racing as he slowly and carefully tried to search out the source of the noise.

His twin cocked his helm to the side and offlined his optics, listening carefully and only hearing his brother's soft steps on the gel-pad covered ground – yet another thing that only a rich Cybertronian owned.

And then he heard it. A tiny grating of gears, the sound of a Cybertronian moving slightly when their joints were locked, something that only happened when a mech was fearful or anxious. It was something the twins had needed to train themselves out of to keep from freezing up in dangerous situations...like this one.

Flash continued moving, walking around an expensive looking desk and coming to a set of couches and ottomans circled around a huge low table stacked with datapads of all kinds.

There, huddled on one of the couches, was a large, boxy mech with gleaming, glossy black paint that greatly dwarfed the twins, even if the pair's mass was combined. He looked up at them with shining blue optics filled with anxiety and caved in on himself ever further.

The pair stared at him for a while and the mech stared back, shivering lightly but never making a sound passed the grating of his locked joints. Flash finally came forward.

"Uh, you okay?" he asked quietly, his soft voice echoing in the humongous room.

The mech jolted, optic shutters flying fully back as the mech convulsed in a full-body flinch of fear. He stared in horror at the mechs in front of him before squirming uncomfortably and pulling his legs, if possible, closer to the rest of his chassis. His mouth opened yet no sounds came out; his lower jaw dropped, sputtered, and slight sounds, a mixture between exhales and soft gasps, came from the mech.

_Primus, did we break him or something?_ Flash lifted an optic ridge at his brother in warning.

A strangled sound came from the terrified mech's vocalizer. "C-c...c-c-cou...c-could y-y-you...lookawayplease!" The mech squeaked out the end of his sentence in one quick blur, on par with Lonestar in one of his excited states. Except Star was never this scared, and he didn't stutter, ever.

"What?" Flash asked in confusion. The mech made an odd squeaking sound and buried his faceplates in his knee joints.

Shaking his helm, Bolt reached out, grabbed his brother's shoulder and spun him around, turning and doing the same. _Just do what he wants, Bro._

The pair found themselves staring around the room for quite some time, so long in fact that Bolt wandered off when he spotted a terminal, looking to use it to locate their mark. Flash then was the one to shake his helm. He was tempted to peek back over his shoulder and barely resisted the urge.

"Th-th-th...th-th-th..."

"I get it," Flash interrupted softly. "You're welcome. So, ah, do you live here?"

_Found the title! _Bolt crowed in his head. Flash rolled his optics as an affectionate smile flittered across his faceplates. His brother was not so much the enigma others believed him to be. He shook his helm again as his brother wandered off through the huge stacks of the library in search of the datapad.

"Mmhmm." Apparently only words said through a closed mouth were among the mech's capabilities at the time, and Flash didn't mind too much. These were the sort of responses his brother gave others all the time.

But while asking the question he hadn't thought exactly about what an affirmative answer would mean.

"Oh! Oh geez. I am so sorry. This is, ah, oh so awkward. I'm sorry. We should go. I mean, this is, uh, oh Primus this is bad. This is so, so bad. I mean, getting caught is bad, but this is like, extra bad."

Flash offhandedly wondered if he'd ever before spoken so much at one time.

"S'okay..." came the whispered, meek reply. Flash was already off, though, finally realizing just how bad things were. They had been caught, _caught!_ No mech had ever caught them before! They were dead, so, so very dead!

_Bolt, we gotta go! We gotta go now! Abort the fragging mission! _he wailed to his brother.

_Eh-eh, no, not gonna happen. I'm halfway up one of those giant moving ladder thingies – and would you believe they actually have one? – and I'm in the row it's supposed to be in. We're this far, we ain't gonna get another chance like this, I ain't messing it up now._

Flash groaned aloud. "Okay, uh, sir, sorry for the disturbance, but we're just gonna, ah, grab something and um, be on our merry way. Uh, okay?"

"...G-gonna...t-take s-omethin'...?"

The twins froze and flinched. "Erm, yes. I'm sorry, but we need to. I mean, we're kinda broke, and we need the credits, and ah, there's a lot of stuff here, and my bro says that no one touches this one anyway, I mean they won't miss it, and we're being offered a lot of credits here...Ah, I'm sorry. This is your stuff, I feel like slag for this. Actually I thought you would've called for help by now. I'm kinda surprised. But we really need to do this..."

There was a long pause of silence, during which Flash felt progressively worse.

"Wh-which one?"

"Huh?" Flash, forgetting the situation, turned in surprise. The black mech flinched violently, but snuck a look up at him quickly, meeting his optics for a short amount of time before swiftly resettling them on somewhere else on Flash's torso. The twin thought it was something like his arm.

The mech's helm twitched as he gained his courage. "Wh-which d-datap-pad?"

"Ah, some pre-Quintesson thing with fables or somthin'. M'not sure what it's called..."

"'S not wh-where he's l-looking." Flash cocked his helm in surprise as the mech's voice gained strength. Before the pirate could respond the black mech jumped up and suddenly walked off towards a shelf in a far corner, near a window. Flash was about to call him back before his brother said, _Can't find it, Bro. 'S not here._

_Ah, I think the guy here knows where it is._

_Why?_

_'Cause he's coming this way with it in his servo right now, that's why._

_...Oh._

"H-here." The mech averted his gaze and thrust the datapad at the twin. Confused but appreciative, Flash carefully took it from the other's grasp.

"Thanks, uh..."

"T-Timbre. My d-design-nation."

Flash smiled. "Thank you, Timbre. I'd, er, tell ya my designation, but it would really be better not to."

The mech nodded, but the twin thought he wilted a bit.

"W-window th-there opens e-easy." He pointed at a side window, which did indeed have a latch. The twins were about to thank him when the mech turned and wandered off back into the library. Flash watched him go back to the couch he had been on before, staring at it like it held the answers to the meaning of life before snatching up some datapads that were resting on the other side of it and moving off to file them away.

The twins shared a glance, confused. They were getting com. messages from Slang, but ignored him for the moment. What was with this mech? One moment he's terrified, the next he's helping them out.

Bolt, sick of simply wondering, spoke up with one meaningful word.

"Why?"

Timbre froze and said clearly and carefully, without turning around or any semblance of a stutter, "I've always wanted to meet pirates."

The pair stopped and shared a glance. _You think?_ Flash asked.

_Dunno, special skills?_

_You mean, passed reading a lot? He's, er, organized._

_So is Aero, need something more._

_Ehhh...He's big?_

_Yeah, but he's anxious. Anxious mechs don't make for good fighters._

_We're anxious and we can fight._

_Yeah, but we're trained in it, Bro, he ain't. He's a coddled Towers mech._

_One who isn't at the big "party of the vorn" down there? Outcasts make good pirates; heh, we all know that._

_But what can he do?_

"Yo, Timbre, what skills you got?"

Flash groaned and slapped his helm listening to his brother's remark. Only when Bolt was uncomfortable did he suddenly become mouthy.

Timbre turned and shuffled uncomfortably, shifting his weight and passing the datapads in his hold from servo to servo.

"Not much. That's what the t-tutor s-says...I excelled in various l-languages, but was nowhere near as a-advanced as my siblings. N-no good at t-talking them, though."

This was going nowhere, fast, but Flash refused to leave. He sensed something here, and was following through. He opened his mouth to speak when a scrabbling sound came from the "easy-to-open" window. A set of red optics peered in with interest, and a series of claws scrapped the windowpane again. Bolt wandered over to open it.

"Scorponok," he greeted simply. The drone chirped and nuzzled the twin's servo, causing it to brush over a note tied around his neck. The twin plucked it up curiously.

_Dumbafts – hurry the slag up. Making people anxious over here._

The drone's gaze then shot up, and he scurried off the windowsill and across the room, his tiny legs working furiously to carry him to his destination, which was apparently at Timbre's pedes. The small drone purred loudly and rubbed his helm against the black mech's legs adoringly.

Bolt couldn't decide if the mech was terrified, mortified, or both.

Timbre continued shifting uneasily, and yelped quietly as the drone began crawling up him. He shuddered as Scorponok settled himself on his large shoulder, purring directly into his audio.

_Scorponok likes him,_ Flash sent to his brother smugly.

_I didn't say I didn't like him, I just said that we gotta go and he has no skills to get Aero to like him._

**Hey twins, Scorpy find you yet? Yeah, he's there to tell you to hurry the slag up. Like, now! We don't have time to loiter and test how long it takes till you get caught!**

The duo flinched at Slang's intrusive com. Flash, per usual, was the responder.

**Ah, we kind of already did that. Get caught, I mean.**

**You **_**what**_**? **Aero could be heard screaming in the background. He always kept his cool, up until the point that his perfect plans started falling apart. Then he had a meltdown.

**Um, yeah, by the outcast creation of the party's hosts, apparently. We kinda ran into him while looking for the mark. But he got it for us, and he told us how to get out.**

**Why would he do that? **The triple-changer interjected.

**I dunno, he said he'd always wanted to meet pirates-**

**How the slag did he know you were pirates? Slaggit, what did you two **_**do**_**?**

Blackjack suddenly joined the conversation. **He knows about pirates? Hmm... **_**interesting.**_** Anyways, some of the guests are starting to call for transports. I can seem 'em driving 'em up now. Just grab the guy and get out of there.**

Aero shrieked, **Are you out of your fragging processors? What the slag are you doing?**

**He's a witness, we don't know if he can be trusted, no matter how nice he seems. Safest bet, take him with. 'Sides, he likes pirates. We'll give him the inside scoop.**

Aero protested, but soon was silenced, presumably by Blackjack dragging him off.

The twins shrugged, and Flash glanced at Timbre, who was watching them nervously while sneaking glances at the happily purring drone on his shoulder.

"So, er, Timbre. Wanna see what it's like to be a pirate?"

That had been the entrance of the final crewmember into piracy. Well, until now. But if Smokescreen was to remain on the crew was as of yet undetermined. They would just have to see how the tour of the ship went.

* * *

Smokescreen had honestly never seen a ship quite like this one. Sure, he'd been all over the _Ark_, and he'd seen a few other Autobot ships over the vorns, but none were quite so...homey. They all carried with them that same air of professionalism, that same little vibe that reminded one that they were, in fact, on a military ship, whereas the _Defiance_ felt like a moving residence.

As soon as they had entered the moderately sized ship he had tripped over a pile of datapads, only to catch himself against a colorfully painted wall.

"Mm, my bad," Blackjack had called, running forward to scoop up the pile, only to deposit them on an already full side table shoved against a wall at the entrance.

That had only been the beginning of the insanity. Smokescreen, coming from a ship that, while quirky and occasionally familial, was still professional and military, was not used to the general disarray that the _Defiance_ permeated.

The ship was covered in personal belongings, from datapads and storypads to paint of numerous colors and every type of wax that could be found on Cybertron, to extra pieces of armor, empty and partially-full energon cubes, and the occasional thermal blanket thrown across a chair or table.

When one first walked in they found themselves in an open hallway with multi-colored walls that led into a control room of sorts with a huge bank of computers against one wall, in the middle of which was a large set of windows with the pilot's seat in front of it. Off of this room, called the communications room, were a room that constituted as "everyone's office that needs an office," an engineering lab, and a common room, and from the common room was a long hallway containing the personal quarters.

Smokescreen was surprised at how quickly everyone tolerated his presence in what was technically their home. He was shown around like a visiting family member rather than some mech everyone had just met. The undercover Autobot couldn't tell if he found this nice or disconcerting.

"So," Blackjack began, slapping a servo down on the Datsun's shoulder strut. "What do you think?"

"It's...comfortable. Less utilitarian than I'd expected. That's a good thing, I promise."

Blackjack smiled widely. "That's good, 'cause we already decided we're keeping you." He raised a servo to silence any shocked remarks Smokescreen could make. "It's a trial thing – Aero makes me say that for everyone, don't worry – but I think you'll be a keeper. What do you think?"

The Autobot truly now had no idea what to think. This was...sudden, to say the least. He was an Autobot, and here they so mistakenly thought they could trust him.

They thought that he was genuine, that he was really just a gambler interested in getting into the pirate business for new horizons. They didn't know that he was here to secure the Autobots' interests in Vanos, to play keep-away with the Decepticons, to simply "obtain" the place before their enemies could. They didn't know that for all intents and purposes of Smokescreen's mission, Vanos was just a prize to be won, a trophy-city, only needed to piss off the Decepticons, to lord it over their helms.

They didn't know that Smokescreen was a traitor, a liar, a fake. They didn't know that this was all one big ruse, that they would one day hate him. They didn't know that their trust was being betrayed in the greatest of ways.

They didn't know that one orn this would all end, and he would be to blame.

But he couldn't tell them that, couldn't warn them, couldn't do a thing about it. All he could do was suck it up, bury his emotions, and slap on his happy face. It was a good thing professional gamblers knew how to perfect their bluffs.

"I think that sounds great."

* * *

Aero was not happy, not one bit. His crew, his friends, his family, were off showing the "new guy" around their ship, _their ship_, giving him his own fragging _room._ This was just, just..._unacceptable_.

Never before had Aero been so adamantly against someone joining the crew. He had been uncomfortable with Slang, given that he was the first non-Vanoan, but had soon found him to be a good addition. The twins had held a recommendation from his adoptive brother, and had lived up to it. And though Timbre had made him highly wary, given his background and the way he had joined the crew, it was hard to expect the shy young mech of any sort of subterfuge after spending a deca-orn with him.

But this Smokescreen, oh, he had all the signs of an untrustworthy mech. All full-time, professional gamblers were untrustworthy, of course, which was why Aero hadn't wanted to bring one on the crew in the first place. There was logic in every judgment he made, and here logic stated that gamblers, by trade, could not be trusted in any matter.

Here was a gambler being brought into his crew, his home, one who he had never heard of before who had shown up under sketchy circumstances. Plus this was all much, much too quick. Sure, some of his crewmembers had joined through spur-of-the-moment decisions, but this, he wasn't comfortable with this at all.

"Bril," he said aloud as soon as he was sure the others were firmly ensconced in the rest of the ship, closed off from the communications room. The computer immediately responded.

"Sir?" asked the program. Bril's introduction with Smokescreen had unnerved the mech, which had delighted Aero. He wasn't sure how the system would feel about his plan, but he knew that he would comply all the same.

"I need you to run a search on Smokescreen, and I need it to be kept under wraps. Nobody else can know, not Blackjack, not Lonestar, nobody."

Bril paused for a long moment. "...Not even Creator, sir?"

Aero sighed. "No, not even Slang. They'll be upset if they knew about the search, but it's necessary to keep them all safe. You understand, right?"

Bril understood. The crew's safety was his main priority, not only because it was in his programming, but because the crew, the ship, was the only life he had ever known. He would do anything to preserve it.

A preliminary search revealed nothing – he would need to dig deeper.

"Preliminary results are inconclusive, sir. Where shall I look?"

Aero paused for a long, pregnant moment. "Hack the files of the _Nemesis _and the _Ark._ I need to know if he's undercover."

"Sir, those files are heavily guarded. That action may take a long time to complete while remaining unnoticed."

The triple-changer sighed once more. "Take as long as you need, kid. Subtlety is key. But go with the _Ark _first."

"Any particular reason, sir?"

"Yeah; he's too nice to be a 'Con." Grudgingly, Aero had to admit this. But he didn't have to like it. "I only say that because I can't imagine that mech being a very good actor. If I am right that he's not what he says, and I'm fairly sure I am, I doubt he even thought to give us a fake name - that means that you can just search his designation first, before going by description."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, that'll be all. Remember, keep this quiet."

"Of course, sir."

With that, Aero left the room, and Bril set to his task. The _Ark_ had its own sentient computer. This, he knew, was bound to be interesting.

* * *

**And that is that – not much to say today, other than that we're opening a crapload more in new subplots, forgive any missing line breaks, and please, REVIEW!**


	6. Interim

**So, this is short and overdue. Well, short by my standards. But these are a couple things I wanted to get out, situations I wanted to touch on briefly that didn't involve the crew, and I found it best to put them all together. I didn't have too much direction for this chapter, if you couldn't tell. It's kind of drabble-ish. But here it is, all the same. And before you go ignoring this as irrelevant, a big secret is revealed here. So read!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any of its characters, but I do own all OCs used here, as well as Vanos, the Game, and the situations shown here.**

* * *

_Excerpt from the archives of the _Defiance_, File Name: Breaks._

_Everyone needs a break sometimes, even pirates. It's good for you, they lower stress, they're fun, and sometimes you just need to relax, even if you need to grab the ship's SIC and drag him away from his job._

_Breaks are awesome. I love breaks. In fact, my whole life here on the ship is like one huge break. We all kind of float around and do nothing and have fun with that – the doing nothing, I mean – and then some work is tossed in, and then we do some more nothing – it's a great life._

_And here my father wanted me to go to school. Guess that didn't work out, now did it?_

_So yes, breaks are wonderful, so wonderful that they get their own section here just to piss off my little supercomputer. Breaks, respites, breathers, lulls, reprieves, relaxations, they all mean one wonderful thing: I'm not working._

_But just 'cause we're not doing anything doesn't mean that others aren't._

_File Archived by: Slang, the lazy pirate who never does anything and enjoys it._

Wheeljack sat in his lab, staring at the invention in front of him. He tried to focus on it, but he'd hit a rut in its creation – that usual rut where no matter what he did the invention wouldn't stop blowing up – and that left him staring at the prototype weapon, thoughts straying to other subjects.

Vanos. He couldn't believe that they were seriously around Vanos. He had finally convinced Prime and Jazz to move the _Ark_ away from Vanoan airspace, but they were still in a close proximity to his native home.

He wanted so badly to go down there, to see if everything was still as he had left it. Wheeljack hadn't been back to Vanos since he'd left for the Science Academy. He hadn't contacted Vanos since he had left for safety's sake, and that broke his spark. His little brother was somewhere down there, among all of those lights. Did he even know that Wheeljack was still alive? Was he still at the old shop? The inventor found himself dying to know.

But he had been sworn to secrecy about Vanos and its inhabitants by Optimus Prime and Jazz, even though he didn't plan on sharing with the general public and the pair had told him nothing about Smokescreen's mission or why he was on Vanos. Whatever the reason was, though, Wheeljack knew it couldn't bode well for his home and its denizens.

Uncharacteristically Wheeljack growled at his invention in frustration. He was going nowhere with this one and he'd had such high hopes for it. Maybe he should just shelve it for another time when he wasn't so distracted and conflicted.

He spared a glance at the shelves lining his walls, packed and overflowing with prototypes and mock-ups of all kinds. Half and partially built inventions were close to falling off the shelves, and the line of damaged or dysfunctional finished products along the other wall wasn't fairing much better.

A chime at his door drew his attention; he was thankful for the distraction, and gladly called the other in. Grapple and Hoist entered, both looking at the object on his bench with interest.

"I wouldn't get too close if I were you," Wheeljack warned. "It's been sparking a lot lately." The two froze and took a few hasty steps back.

"So what brings you two here?"

"There's something we need your help with," Grapple said for the pair. "You know about the _Ark_'s cloaking system, right?" When Wheeljack nodded, he continued, "Well, it started glitching a long time ago. We reported it to Prime and he had us put it on the backburner for a while to work on some other projects that he said took more precedence, but last orn he suddenly decided that it was of the utmost importance and needed to be fixed immediately."

"Thing is," Hoist began, "Neither of us have ever seen something like this before. It's obviously some custom modification, and as far as we can tell it's never needed repairs before so we never had to fix it. Thus, we have no idea _how_ to fix it. You know we only have training in standard repairs, and this is definitely not standard. Think you can help?"

"Sure," Wheeljack said maybe a bit too quickly in his eagerness. "I've got nothing better to do right now."

With nods to two led him from his lab and through the twisting, winding hallways of the _Ark_ to the back of the ship where one of the engine rooms was located. There, amidst the loud grumblings and high-pitched whines of the ship was a simple white box attached to a multitude of colored wires.

Grapple pointed at it, saying, "Well, this is it. Not much to look at, but it's pretty important, at least right now for some reason."

Wheeljack nodded and knelt in front of the box, giving it a cursory examination. It looked fairly standard, at least as cloaking devices went – though it had to be admitted that cloaking devices, as a whole, weren't standard, but it wasn't too surprising to find one on an elite military ship.

Wheeljack had designed cloaking devices like this back in his pre-Academy orns for the pirates. He had believed himself to be the first with that sort of technology, especially on that high of a scale – making an electro-disrupter, something he held the patent on unbeknownst to his comrades, was hard enough. A cloaking device was an electro-disrupter on a larger scale, ramped up to cover ships of all sizes.

Apparently he wasn't the only one to have come up with this idea. Or if he had been, his idea had been copied. Wheeljack had installed all cloaking devices he made into the ships himself, just to ensure they were secured and connected properly. He hadn't put one into the _Ark_, but he couldn't help wondering who had created this one, wondering who had copied his idea.

Idly Wheeljack checked for an inventor's mark. Any inventor worth anything left a small mark somewhere on their inventions, usually their initials or a symbol that was equated with them. It helped them to prove their ownership of a design, especially if it was stolen.

He turned the white box to the side, checking all over it. Out of habit he checked along the right side of the box, in the top left corner where he always placed his own mark. To his luck he found a small etching in the corner. He leaned in to examine it, ignoring how Grapple and Hoist watched him with confusion.

The inventor traced the mark, trying to make it out. Marks were always harder to see once people had painted over it – then again, sometimes that was the intention.

He then reared back in shock, falling backwards and needing to use his servos to support him. He offlined his optics and rebooted them, waiting for a full reload before leaning forward to again see the same mark and repeat his previous actions, jumping away once again.

"What? What is it?"

Wheeljack shot a surprised look at Grapple and Hoist, having forgotten that they were still present while he was swept away in astonishment. The two were desperate for a reply, but his mind was too busy reeling in distress for him to answer.

This, this was impossible! He had installed all units by himself, on his own! And he hadn't put one in the _Ark_, he was sure of that! But then how was this here, this cloaking device with _his_ mark on it, a simple, slightly stylized glyph representing his first initial engraved in the metal, so plain and unassuming and _mind-blowing_.

There would be no reason for anyone else to place Wheeljack's mark on their own invention, meaning that this unit had been created by Wheeljack himself. And he could tell from how meticulously the unit had been installed, how all bolts were as tight as possible without warping the material and how the cords had been arranged _just so_ to avoid tangling that this installation had, indeed, been done by himself.

But there had only ever been one unit of this size, of this caliber and strength, that Wheeljack had ever created. It was the largest, most expensive and powerful cloaking device he had made, and he remembered exactly who had ordered it and where it had gone.

That cloaking device had belonged to the _Madness._

And now it was on the _Ark_, still originally installed.

With a numb feeling, Wheeljack silently stood and left the engine room, ignoring his companions' questions and comments of confusions. He walked through the _Ark_, seeing the Autobot flagship that had so long been his home in a different light. The hallways had been painted that garish orange, and rooms were used for new purposes, but it was the same.

Engine and maintenance rooms maintained their original purposes, that much he knew. Walking the corridors of the _Ark_ he imagined the blueprints for both ships, and he couldn't help feeling like an idiot that he hadn't seen it before. He should have realized!

Giant, extremely expensive ships don't just disappear.

With a dazed look in his optics Wheeljack found himself again approaching Prime's office for the second time in as many orns, only this time he saw it through past visions. Paint the door bright red, make the ceiling a sky blue – yes, this was it.

When Prime called for him to enter, Wheeljack did so, not noticing the surprised and confused look in the Prime's optics nor that his companions were still trailing behind him, now doing their best to explain to the Prime just what had happened.

As if in a trance Wheeljack walked around the Prime, not hearing his questions, and pulled out a small utility blade. He began to diligently chip away at the paint on the wall behind the Prime's desk, ignoring the loud protests he was receiving.

He had to know for sure. He _needed_ to know.

Ratchet's servos grabbed onto his forearm and Wheeljack started. Since when had his friend joined them? The medic was speaking, but his words were canned, fuzzy and came from a long distance. He cocked his helm, not quite able to make out what the medic was saying. But his optics flicked back to his work on the wall, and what he saw only made him wish to continue with more vigor than before.

Pulling his arm from Ratchet's grasp Wheeljack continued, ignoring the helpless looks of the other Autobots and the concerned expression his friend was wearing as he contemplated sedating the inventor to find out just what had happened to him to put him in this odd and unnerving state.

Yet they all allowed Wheeljack to continue in his silent work, carefully chipping away at the thick layer of paint that covered the wall. They weren't sure what he expected to find – that was, until he started to find it.

As flakes of obnoxious orange paint fell to the floor, a vivid red image was revealed. In his trance Wheeljack continued his work, and in their astonished stupor the others allowed him to continue in silence, curious as to what exactly he was revealing – and how he had known it was there to begin with.

After breems of them all standing completely still, locked in place, the group of four watched Wheeljack finally lower and subspace his blade. He brushed away a few stray chips of paint and took a step back, placing his servos on his hips and taking in the full view.

"I knew it," he murmured, more to himself than to the room around him. "I should have realized…all this time, it was right here."

"What was right here?"

The inventor jolted, spinning around quickly to find that he wasn't at all alone, and thinking back on it he couldn't begin to fathom why he had thought he was in the first place. In fact, the whole last joor was a blur to him. He had been in the engine room, and he was looking at the cloaking device, and he had seen _his own mark_ on it and then he was walking and then everything blurred and smeared until he was here, in the company of Ratchet, Grapple, Hoist, and Optimus Prime, staring at a symbol he had never expected to see again.

He rubbed the back of his helm sheepishly under the scrutinizing gazes of his comrades. "Uh, this." He uselessly waved a servo in the direction of the sigil. "I should've realized."

"Realized what?" Ratchet had his arms crossed in front of him and narrowed optics; not the best of signs for the poor inventor who had experienced one too many shocks and epiphanies I the last few orns.

Wheeljack floundered, struggling uselessly for something to say, and then realizing that what he wanted to say was something he wasn't allowed to say. He had promised Prime not to talk of Vanos and pirates and well, this had everything to do with those subjects. And he wasn't supposed to be letting others in on the whole mission with Smokescreen, and Hoist and Grapple and Ratchet were here and didn't even know what pirates were, so…

"Can't say!" he exclaimed cheerfully, his fins flashing a bright green for a moment. He raised his arms and shrugged, _what can I do?_

"You can't say?" Ratchet repeated, optics narrowing further as he took an intimidating step forward. He uncrossed his arms and began clenching a servo, as if gripping a phantom wrench. "Oh, you very well _can_ say, 'Jack, and you _will_ say. You are going to tell me why I just spent the last joor watching my best friend work like a mad-mech to remove a layer of paint from a wall to reveal an image that nobody knew was there in the first place while I had to stand around wondering if his explosions had finally rattled his CPU beyond what I could repair, and you are going to tell me _now._"

Wheeljack sent a helpless look at Prime, begging for some sort of assistance. Optimus, finally catching an inkling of what this whole situation might be related to, turned to Grapple and Hoist and kindly asked them if they could excuse the rest of them. The two weren't quite pleased to be abruptly butted out of the loop, but they understood their places and weren't about to argue with Prime; if he didn't want them there for this, then he had to have a good reason for it. With nods the duo left, now wondering how in Primus's name they were supposed to repair that cloaking device on their own.

Once the two had left Wheeljack spent a moment staring at Optimus Prime. "Uh, sir? This is about that thing, you know, the one I'm not supposed to mention that Ratchet's not in the loop on…?"

The Prime watched him with exasperated optics. "Wheeljack, you and I both know Ratchet well enough to know that he won't leave us alone until he knows everything that's going on now that he's seen all of this, and we both know that trying to keep a secret from him now will only result in very painful and intrusive surprise tests and physicals for the both of us."

"For your own health," Ratchet quipped.

The Prime and the inventor looked at Ratchet, then to each other, and then back at the medic before uttering simultaneously in the same tone, "_Right."_

"So what is all this, then?" the medic grunted, crossing his arms again in general defiance.

Wheeljack glanced to Prime again in question, and upon receiving an answering nod, began to tell an abridged version of his tale to Ratchet, the same version he had told Prime which gave the bare minimum on his past – that he was from Vanos, which was a pirate city (which meant he had to throw in a token description of pirates), that he had left to go to the Science Academy, that he used to make customized equipment for the pirates – just the basics of his past really.

He artfully left out anything about family.

"So Smokescreen's in this Vanos right now?" Ratchet asked after the Prime had relayed how Wheeljack's past tied in with the present. Really, there was no hiding anything from Ratchet; no matter how hard you tried, he would always find out sooner rather than later, and the longer you waited the more pissed he would be about being left in the dark for so long.

"Yes, though we have yet to hear from him." It was obvious to see the worry in Optimus's optics, so much so that Wheeljack wanted to laugh. He looked like a worried creator, who didn't seem to quite realize that Smokescreen was very much an adult and could look after himself.

Then again, Optimus would probably react the same way to any of his crew being out on a solo mission. He already got a little weird when any of the regular Ops mechs went out, especially Bumblebee. He was like the overprotective creator that none of them had ever had, who was also a tad bit overbearing and turned worrying into a professional sport and pastime. It was a little creepy to be sure, but better than a leader who didn't care at all.

"Alright, then what does any of this have to do with that fragging huge picture on the wall?"

Ratchet looked to Optimus, who then looked to Wheeljack for an explanation, leaving him with both sets of optics trained on him. Ex-venting heavily, Wheeljack decided to just do this quickly and get it over with before the chaos that he knew would follow his statement erupted.

"Alright, you two ready for a little story?" At the stares he received Wheeljack sighed once more, and nodded to himself. "Right, then. Well, take a seat, this could be a while."

Once the other two had done so (Wheeljack had opted to stand so he could pace, one method that he found helped him relieve some nervous tension), he began.

"Back when I lived in Vanos, there was one pirate crew above the rest. I think you heard a little bit about them, Prime? They were the crew of the _Madness_, and they were the most powerful crew the city has ever seen. They had around as many crewmembers as the _Ark_ does now and an equally massive ship, the largest I've ever seen. I used to do all of the custom work for Vanoan ships, and the _Madness_ was no different. In fact, Steelgauge, its captain, was a regular at my shop. We had a deal: he would track down the different parts I needed for my inventions, and I would either pay him in credits or in service for his ship, more often the latter. I think the most work I ever did on a ship was on the _Madness_.

"Anyways, one orn Steelgauge suddenly decided to retire. He paid off all of his crew well, well enough that they would never need to work again if they didn't want to, and he took his ship and he disappeared. Nobody ever saw him again. It was…disconcerting, to say the least. He and I…well, I had come to think of us as friends, you know? It was odd for him to suddenly leave, but then again, I had already left for the Science Academy by that time, only heard about it from a passing pirate I accidentally ran into. We hadn't seen each other in vorns anyway, so I guess I can't complain. But I digress.

"Nobody ever saw or heard from Steelgauge again, and his ship disappeared, which was more than a little odd, given its size and how well-known it was in certain circles. Now Prime, I have to ask, do you know how the _Ark_ came to be?"

Optimus sent a confused look at the inventor. "I believed it to have been commissioned especially for the Autobots. Wasn't it?"

Wheeljack's helm cocked to the side and the fins on his helm flashed yellow. "That's what I thought, and that's probably what everyone else thought. But this symbol here? This proves that the _Ark_ was not commissioned. If I had to make a guess, I'd say that it was…donated to the Autobot cause."

"Donated by whom?" Ratchet asked carefully, slowly.

His best friend ignored his question for the moment. "Every inventor has their own personal mark that they use to mark their own inventions, to prove that it's their own. If you checked Mirage's electro-disrupter you would find my mark on it, because I created it. I remember that commission in particular, and I know that it's mine anyway; I hold the patent on electro-disrupters, they were one of my most popular designs for obvious reasons. I created a type of cloaking device for ships that was a scaled-up version of an electro-disrupter, and that's the kind of cloaking device that the _Ark_ has. My mark is on the _Ark_'s cloaking device, meaning that I created and installed it, meaning that the _Ark_ was, at one point, a pirate ship. No, don't give me that look; I know my ships, and I only ever customized pirate ships; this was, at some point, a pirate ship.

"But that's not all. Every pirate has their own mark, too, that their crew wears. It shows their loyalty and can provide protection if the crew has a high stature, and Prime stop with the appalled look, the marks are painted on, not branded. They aren't Decepticons; you need to remember that or this entire deal with Vanos is going to end terribly.

"Anyways, back to my subject. All pirate crews have different, unique marks that the crewmembers wear and can be found on or around the ship, to identify it to those who may not recognize it by size or design. The _Madness_ had a joking mark, a play on its name: a twisted smiley face that looked like a demented mech. Simple yet effective."

Looks of complete understanding began to dawn on the other Autobots' faces. Well, in Prime's optics, at least; for all Wheeljack knew, he was sticking his glossa out behind his facemask.

"So what you're saying is…" Optimus trailed off his voice fading to silence as the many implications of that statement bowled him over mentally.

"Yes. The _Ark_ and the _Madness _are the same ship. We are currently on the most expensive and advanced pirate ship ever to be created, which was believed to have disappeared. What's even better is this: I knew Steelgauge, and I know he would never let his ship fall into anyone else's servos without his permission, no matter what anyone tried to do to take it from him."

"What do you mean?" inquired Ratchet, still choosing his words carefully.

"I mean that wherever Steelgauge is, whatever happened to him, I know one thing for sure: Steelgauge gave this ship to the Autobots."

"Which leaves one question…" muttered Optimus. Ratchet finished his statement.

"…Whatever happened to Steelgauge?"

* * *

Bril set to work entering the _Ark_'s files. He had to do this slowly, delicately to avoid notice. Carefully he began hacking outer firewalls, just the small, insignificant ones that were really just superfluous. He could have removed them in a klik, but he purposefully spread out the job, not only to avoid notice but because, well, he enjoyed examining the code, appreciating its subtle complexity even as a superficial backup.

_It reflects its creator_, he thought with a happy rush of emotion.

The supercomputer would admit that he had always from afar admired the other. His work was superb, and he performed his duties flawlessly. It was his dream to be able to come into contact with him, to even just speak to the only other that was truly like himself.

And the slower he moved in this job, the longer he would be able to dreamily watch him from afar through the invisible field that was cyberspace.

He could only hope that Teletraan-One wouldn't notice his admirer.

* * *

Blackout walked out of the _Nemesis_ with his helm held high, rotors straight and stiff. He had been sent to search out a ship called the _Defiance_ and bring its members to the Decepticon side. It shouldn't be too hard, given what he had heard of pirates. Pirates were criminals by nature, and many Decepticons were the same. This would be all too easy.

* * *

He watched as Blackout left the _Nemesis_. This was not good, and he would not stand for it.

But how to leave without being noticed…?

He would find a way. He would not allow Megatron to bastardize his city.

Besides, he had to make an overdue visit to his favorite youngling.

* * *

**I know, a lot of these are kind of teasers, but I thought it would be nice, throwing in some clips from the subplots that have been introduced thus far. Hehe, and there's still about two major ones that haven't been really touched on yet; one hasn't even been introduced at all, the other was hinted at. Oh, but I'm gonna enjoy when that one comes in later. And then there's the one that comes after the aforementioned two; let's just suffice to say that I have a lot of subplots, and I love them all.**

**Please tell me what you think and review! Suggestions, comments, critiques, I love them all!**


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